


Holding Out For a Hero

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Bodyguard Zayn, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining, Popstar Harry, mild suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 80,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry only expected a new bodyguard. He didn’t expect the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, or how Zayn looked at him like he could see through him, or how he makes Harry feel things he’s never felt before. But maybe, in the face of death threats and a love he can’t admit, Harry can find a bravery he never knew he had, and a home he never knew he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, bodyguardfic! I know I've been teasing this for forever, but it's finally here. And coming in the wake of March, hopefully it will be an AU balm to the soul. Many thanks to my beta Celia and Denice my cheerleader. And many thanks to you all, for sticking around to read!
> 
> Don't know anything, don't own anything. Honestly, I know very little about anything I talk about in this fic, from the music industry to MMA fighting to children. So take nothing I saw as authoritative. 
> 
> As for posting schedule, there are 4 chapters, and I will post them every four days. So the next chapter will be up Thursday. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry’s never been a particularly aggressive person, but in this situation he thinks it’s probably best to start things off with a clean slate. “This time it really wasn’t, I swear.”

Paul sighs as Harry drops into the chair at one end of the conference room table and rubs his temples. Harry does feel more than a little bit bad—he knows that he’s probably not the easiest musician to work for, and his fanbase is certainly more, well, fanatical than many—but wants to be clear about this from the start. And anyway, Paul should be used to it, after six years with Harry. “Really,” he insists, “It wasn’t. I was right where I was supposed to be, and James wasn’t there.”

“Exactly where you were supposed to be?” Paul levels Harry a questioning look. Maybe Harry should have stayed standing, so he could face Paul head on, instead of looking up at him. But he’d been on his feet all day for rehearsals for the UK leg of his tour, and he’s tired. And Paul’s taller than him anyway.

Still, he shifts in his seat. “Fine. I’d gone to sign a few autographs. But I hadn’t gone far! He could totally have seen me.”

Paul sighs again. He has a lot of practice at that. “Okay. No matter how you swing it—”

“It wasn’t me!” Harry reiterates, but Paul just goes on,

“Clearly James isn’t working out as a bodyguard, so we’re finding someone new. Who can hopefully actually keep tabs on you.”

“I don’t try to lose them,” Harry mutters, but he doesn’t really protest. He doesn’t try to lose his bodyguards, but it does end up happening, usually because they’re busy trying to make him stop doing his job, which is to interact with fans. Or they just loom a lot and it makes Harry a bit uncomfortable, and it definitely makes people he’s talking to uncomfortable. Either way, it doesn’t work.

“Anyway,” Paul continues, like he hadn’t heard Harry, “We’re going to try something new this time—someone closer in age to you, a little less conspicuous, see if that doesn’t help. Maybe you’ll actually manage to be friends with this one.”

“Hey! I can be friends with anyone.” It’s true. Harry’s proved it. He’s gotten Simon Cowell to smile. Still, he drops his head at Paul’s steady stare. “Fine, maybe not my bodyguards.”

“We’ll see about this one. We’ve got him basically chosen; he’s just here to come by and meet you so you can give the final okay, make sure you can work together. If it all goes well, he’ll be going on tour with you next week.”

Harry nods. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, over and over. What is new, though, is when Paul leans forward, bracing his hands on the table. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but remember, you’d be his employer. Seducing employees is illegal.”

“What?” Harry sputters, straightening. “I don’t—I haven’t—I wouldn’t!”

All three of those are probably lies, because there have been some hot techs and roadies and assistants and Harry likes attractive people, and he likes sex. He doesn’t think it’s particularly a failing, given that he’s never had anyone come out of it hurt. But still. He doesn’t need to be warned, like a teenager who can’t keep it in his pants. He’s twenty-three, he doesn’t need a talking to like that. So he crosses his arms over his chest and gives his best scowl, which he knows perfectly well is more of a pout than a glare but still usually works on Paul.

This time, though, he just raises his hands, palm out. “I thought it needed to be said,” is all he says, then hits a button on the phone on the table to activate the intercom, and tells it, “You can send in Mr. Malik.” He turns to Harry. “His resume’s in front of you, if you want to look, but you can trust he’s qualified.”

Harry picks up the paper anyway. It’s pretty impressive, he thinks—lots of martial arts training, a couple stints as bodyguards for other celebrities, albeit smaller than Harry. He went to university, Harry notes, which strikes him as a little odd, even if it was only for a few years before he stopped, apparently to start bodyguarding. He knows Paul wouldn’t let anyone through he didn’t think could look after him, physically at least, but this guy looks pretty badass, on paper at least.

Still, Harry thinks as he swivels back and forth on his chair, the others were too. The whole parade of big burly men who loomed and tried to cajole him into not talking to fans and stood out like a sore thumb at clubs or bars or anywhere fun Harry tried to go, ruining his game. So he’s not really expecting much—maybe a younger big burly musclebound man, which could be a bit better, he supposes.

“Excuse me?” comes a soft voice from the door behind Harry. Or no. it’s not soft. It’s quiet, but it’s firm, slightly rough with a Northerner’s broad vowels, the sort of voice that fills a room so he doesn’t have to yell. “They said I should come in?”

“Yes!” Paul smiles, “Come on in, Mr. Malik. Thanks for stopping by.”

“’Course.”

“Before we formalized anything, I want you to meet Harry, make sure there are no major problems. Malik, this is Harry Styles. Harry, this is Zayn Malik.”

Harry turns in his chair to greet him.

His first impression is of stillness. It’s weird, that that’s the first impression, because the second impression hits like a thunderbolt—he’s almost impossibly hot. Dark hair that might be almost as long as Harry’s pulled back into a ponytail that accentuates his sharp cheekbones, hazel eyes lined in eyelashes almost too long to be real, stubble highlighting his cheekbones and pink lips. Broad shoulders, stressed by his button-down, tapering into narrow hips and skinny legs in black jeans. Harry blinks, but it’s not a dream. He’s still there.

“Him?” Harry demands, turning to Paul. “He’s not a dancer for the next video?” As soon as he says it, he bites his lip. That was horribly rude. “Sorry,” he tells Malik, giving his best sheepish smile. “I just—you don’t look much like a bodyguard.”

Malik’s even look is worse than Paul’s, just long and blank and Harry can’t see what’s going on behind it at all. “I am, though.” Then his face softens, just a bit, his lips tilting upwards in something that might almost be a smile soon. “And, like, you wouldn’t want me to dance. Trust me.”

That one sentence is more humor than any of Harry’s other bodyguards have shown in the past six years, and Harry could grin in relief. “Well, then, let me try again.” He holds out his hand. “Harry Styles. Nice to meet you!”

Malik reaches out, takes it. His palm’s rough, calloused and warm, smaller than Harry’s, with a bird tattooed on one side and some lettering on the other, but his grip is as firm as his voice. Harry resists the urge to let his grip linger, mainly because he can see Paul giving him threatening eyes out of the corner of his gaze. “Zayn Malik.”

“Great.” Reluctantly, Harry lets go. He can see why Paul gave him the ‘no sleeping with the crew’ lecture. But it’s hard, when his default is to flirt, so in his effort not to he says the first thing that comes into his mind, which is usually a bad idea but it’s the only one he’s got, “So, you’re sort of small for a bodyguard, aren’t you?”

He only realizes as he says it that it’s true. Malik’s shorter than he is, and slighter. But he hadn’t really noticed that, in the face of his face.

Malik just shrugs. “I can get the job done.”

Harry waits a beat for more, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything else. He looks a bit like a statue, all finely crafted features and expressionless face. Maybe he will just be like all the others, boring and a buzzkill.

Luckily, Paul jumps in then, “I’ll just let you two get acquainted, without old fogies like me.” Harry presses his lips together so he doesn’t snort at that. He thinks he sees Malik’s lips twitch again, but he really can’t be sure. “Give me a buzz when you’re done, Haz.”

“Okay!” Harry chirps, and Paul leaves. Harry turns to Malik. “So…we can sit down, I guess?” He’s not really very good at this. He’s probably supposed to be interviewing him, but that’s all been done. He’s never really had to test if he can get on with someone, because he gets on with everyone. But Malik sits in one of the chairs with the sort of disdainful grace of a cat, and Harry plops down in the seat across from him. “How old are you, anyway?” he asks. Then, “Actually, I can’t ask you that, right? It’s discrimination.”

Malik shrugs again. “It’s fine. I’m twenty-six.”

“Isn’t that young?”

It gets another shrug. “I got into it early.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Malik’s lips twitch again. “Not when I don’t have to.”

“Hm. Guess that’s a perk of being a bodyguard, you don’t have to talk all the time. Not that I mind. I like talking.” He thinks he sees Malik’s lips move just a bit, like he’s biting down on a comment. It might mean a sense of humor. “But I guess this is an interview. So, like, I guess—why’d you get into bodyguarding?”

“I needed money.” It’s frank, at least. That hasn’t been anyone else’s answer. But then Malik goes on, “And, like, it was what I was good at, I guess. I’d done the MMA thing for a while. This seemed like the natural jump.” He stops, but Harry leans forward. It doesn’t sound like he’s done.

“What else?”

This time, Malik does smile, his lips twisting wryly. It only makes him more attractive. Harry doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last with this much hotness near him all the time. Will it make him less hot in comparison, or more? “Well, I’d always wanted to be a superhero. And this seemed like the closest I could get.”

Harry tips his head back to laugh. That’s definitely the best answer he’s ever heard. When he looks back at Malik, he’s just looking at him, but there’s definitely humor in his gaze. It’s understated, but it’s there, and Harry likes that too. Likes him, quietness and prettiness and expressionlessness aside. He should probably ask more questions, but Harry’s always trusted his gut, and he likes Malik’s aura.

“So, is there anything you want to ask me?” he asks, tipping back in his chair. This is his favorite part of interviews. He thinks, in another life, he’d have been ace at getting jobs.

“Just…” Malik’s teeth pop out to bite on his lower lip. It’s really unnecessary, Harry thinks, dropping back onto all four of the chair’s legs. “Even if you don’t give me the job, can you, like sign this?” He pulls a hat out of his front pocket, one of the ones with Harry’s face on it. It’s…and odd thing for a potential hiree to be carrying around. Generally, hiring fans isn’t a good idea. He shrugs again when he sees Harry’s face. .“I promised my sister I’d ask.”

“Sister?” Harry grabs the nearest pen.

“Yeah. Her name’s Safaa, she’s a big fan. I know it’s unprofessional.” Malik really does smile then, soft and almost sweet, crinkling at the corner of his eyes and turning his whole face from marble into something a thousand times worse. “But, didn’t want to give up the chance to be the best big brother ever.”

Harry blinks, swallows. “Right,” he says, hoarsely. So. That’s—that. That’s a bit overwhelming. And horribly, horribly sweet. “So. Here’s that back,” he hands over the hat, “And, like, I think that’s everything? I feel like we could get along, do you?”

He grins, his biggest grin that won over everyone from X-Factor judges to TV hosts to teenaged girls across the world, and keeps it there even when Malik’s gaze fixes on him, that same steady, piercing look that makes Harry feel like he’s being seen into.

“Yeah,” Malik says, slowly but surely. “I think so.”

“Good!” Harry hits the intercom. “We’re good here, Paul! Get the paperwork and things?”

“Coming,” Paul replies. Harry straightens. Zayn’s still just looking at him, and he can’t read it, and it’s a bit intimidating, really.

“And it’s Zayn,” he says, suddenly. “Stupid of you to be calling me Malik when we’ll be spending so much time together. And I’m not that much older than you.”

“Okay, Zayn.” Harry grins again, tasting the name on his lips. It feels good. “Welcome to the team.”

\---

“So that’s your new bodyguard?” Nick probably thinks he’s whispering, but Harry’s pretty sure he’s not. He’s a little too drunk to tell, but he has his suspicions. “He’s too hot to be a bodyguard!”

“I know!” Harry throws up his arms. It’s a little bit of a problem. Not much of one, because contrary to popular belief Harry is actually capable of controlling himself even if he doesn’t often do so, but if Harry had hoped that he would get less attractive after that first impression, he’d been proven wrong that evening, when Harry had opened the door to find Zayn waiting there to escort him to the car. He was just as hot in black jeans and a t-shirt as he had been in his suit jacket. “I’m not even allowed to sleep with him.”

Nick’s gaze skirts sideways, to where Zayn’s leaning against a wall watching Harry. He doesn’t think Zayn knows what they’re talking about, because his face is carved-of-marble still, but that could just be because that’s what he looks like. He’d looked like that the whole drive over, as Harry drummed his fingers over his knee and tried not to look at Zayn too hard, or fiddle with his scarf too much like he was trying to draw attention to his bared chest. But he had to see them staring, because Harry could feel him looking sometimes, like his gaze had weight, even around the other people in the bar. None of his other bodyguards had felt like this.

Of course, none of his other bodyguards had looked like this. They’d all stood out at these sorts of bars. So did Zayn. But he didn’t stand out like he didn’t fit, he stood out like Harry suspected he’d always stand out, like he’d already had to gently say no to two girls and a guy who’d started talking to him.

“If you can’t sleep with him, can I?” Nick asks. He’s laughing, but Harry still pouts.

“No,” he declares. “No poaching my bodyguard.”

“It’s not poaching if you’re not going to do it.”

“Well, he’s my bodyguard,” Harry repeats. It’s important. He likes how it feels, Zayn looking at him, even if it’s just the constant knowledge that a hot guy is looking at him. “And I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“He was talking on the phone to someone, called her ‘love’,” Harry explains. He puts air quotes around the ‘love’, because it feels important. “So none for you.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Nick teases. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“Threesomes aren’t cheating.”

“It’s just you being a slag,” Nick agrees, and Harry just makes a face back. Those threesomes were awesome, and Nick’s just jealous because despite all his talk he likes relationships and shit like that, and doesn’t want to have threesomes with his hot friends.

Nick laughs, and leans back in his seat. “When are you leaving, then?”

“Next Friday,” Harry informs him. “First concert’s Saturday.”

“So, going away bash Thursday, then?”

It’ll mean he’ll have to pack and get ready right beforehand, but Harry nods enthusiastically. Nick throws the best going-away bashes ever. “Yep!”

“And a pre-pre-pre game now?”

Harry laughs, and hails down the bartender. “Why not?”

Four hours later, Harry is very, very drunk. Nick got lost somewhere—he thinks he found one of his friends, maybe, Harry doesn’t know—but now it’s just Harry on the dance floor, and people are starting to look at him like they get when they’re wondering what they could get for sleeping with him, and Harry hates that, how they look at him like that, like they know him. He spins off the floor—and there’s Zayn! Zayn. He wants Zayn.

“I’m ready to go home,” he announces, stumbling up to him. “Can I go home?” He doesn’t mean it to sound as plaintive as he thinks it might, as young, but that’s what he wants. He wants to take off his tight pants and mess up his hair and sleep.

Harry still can’t read Zayn, but he nods. “Just you?”

“Just me.” Harry glances around, in case someone appeared, but no one did. “And you.”

“Okay, I’ll call the car.” He pulls out his phone, an old school nokia that has Harry giggling because he didn’t think anyone used something like that nowadays. He’ll have to get him a new phone, because he doesn’t think he can be seen with anyone who uses a phone like that. Maybe he should give phones to all his employees, that’d be nice. But what about temps? Or—

“Woah there.” Harry didn’t notice he had been tipping over until there was an arm around his shoulders pulling him back up. “C’mon, Styles, stay with me.”

“I’m fine!” Harry pushes his hair out of his face, straightens up. “Fine!”

“Okay.” Harry thinks he sounds amused, but when he looks he can’t see anything. “The car’ll be here in a minute. Gonna get outside on your own?”

“I’m fine,” Harry repeats. He’s good at this. He’s good at taking care of himself. He’s been taking care of himself since he was seventeen and winning X-Factor and going on tour all on his own, leaving his family and home behind. “I can—”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. “Then let’s go, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He spins—then there’s a gentle hand on the small of his back, not holding him up, just guiding him, showing him where to go. It’s gone before Harry can really register it, but by then Harry’s pointed the right way and he’s stumbling towards the door.

He gets a few steps before he trips on nothing at all, and he’s on the way down before there’s an arm around his waist, hauling him back up. “Easy, there,” Zayn murmurs, and it’s nice and he’s nice, because it was his job to keep Harry from falling but he also doesn’t let go this time, doesn’t listen to Harry’s protests that he’s fine and just helps him out of the club, through the flashing camera lights, and into the car.

Harry slumps back into the seat as Zayn slides in after him, closes the door. It’s easier to concentrate in here, away from the pounding bass and people and all, with just Zayn and his steady gaze on Harry. It makes Harry feel more there, that gaze, like Zayn can see him so he can’t float away. He looks comfortable, at least, sitting with his legs slightly parted and his shoulders relaxed and a t-shirt that looks really soft and it’s not fair how inviting he looks when Harry’s not allowed to touch. He looks more comfortable than he did in the bar, definitely.

“What would you be doing, if you weren’t here?” Harry hears himself ask. He’s never really been curious about his other bodyguard’s lives, but his other bodyguards had never been gentle getting him into a car. Had never held him up when he was having trouble walking, even if he could do it on his own.

Zayn shrugs. “Nothing, probably.”

“Nothing?” Harry grins, teasing. “Your life is so exciting.”

“We can’t all be popstars,” Zayn replies. Harry snorts.

“Well, now you sort of can be.” He pauses. “Would you be with your girlfriend?” he asks. He should know about his employee’s life. It’s only fair. It’s only fair Zayn keep talking, in the quiet of the car, with London’s streets rolling by outside, in that quiet, steady voice like nothing could shake him. Like nothing could knock him aside, could change him, not like Harry’s too fast world with all the changing tempos of it.

“Girlfriend?” Zayn echoes. “Why?”

“Can’t I be curious?” Harry crosses his arms over his chest so he can pout properly. It’s probably good he has a girlfriend. That way Harry can’t be tempted by the way light plays over his skin, even when he’s drunk. He can’t think about how there’s a spot between his neck and his jaw that looks like just the right place for Harry to bite. “You know everything about me. Everyone knows everything about me. I’m the openest of open books.”

“If you say so.” Harry narrows his eyes at Zayn. It sounds like he doesn’t believe him. “I am! You can google anything about me.”

Zayn shrugs. He does that a lot. “Like how you’re sleeping with Grimshaw?”

“I could be.” Harry waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe we’re in an open relationship.”

“You aren’t.” He sounds so sure. Sure like he knows Harry, like he can see into him, and it’s not okay because people can’t, no one can, Harry’s the openest of books written in invisible ink.

“You don’t know that.”

“I could be wrong,” Zayn admits. He doesn’t sound much like he thinks he is. “But I’d bet you’ve never slept together, no matter the rumors.”

“How much?” Harry asks, tilting his head curiously.

Zayn’s lips twitch, and he reaches into his pocket for an old, beaten up leather wallet. “Five quid.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Pocket change?”

“Not all of us are popstars,” Zayn retorts. He’s teasing, Harry thinks. He likes it. Likes how it doesn’t feel mean at all. “What do you propose?”

Harry opens his mouth, and his first instinct is to be cheeky, be flirty, all the things he’d do if Zayn was just a fit lad who’d stumbled into his car—bet a kiss, a blow job. But he’s not allowed. But Zayn isn’t a fit lad who’d stumbled into his car, he’s quiet and still and beautiful and Harry likes him, like he hasn’t liked a bodyguard before. He doesn’t want to scare him off.

“Five pounds is fine,” he proposes. Then he does smile his most cheeky smile. “’course, if you lose, I’ll brag about it for ages. I’m an awful winner. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

It gets one of those lip twitches that’s basically a smile, and something warm lights in Harry’s stomach, at the sight, something that feels like triumph. “I’ll risk it.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs out a sigh. “We’ve never slept together.”

“Knew it!” Zayn exclaims. It’s not loud, but it’s louder than Harry’s ever heard him, and he sits up at it. At how Zayn’s eyes lit up, and he’s smiling more than ever. Not like when he talked about his sister, but still, it’s nice. “Pay up, Styles.”

None of his other bodyguards would have joked with him like this. It’s probably not allowed—it’s probably inappropriate, or he’s being disrespectful, or something—but it’s nice. Being treated like just the loser of a bet. Even if Harry does stick out his lower lip exaggeratedly as he digs in his own wallet for a five.

“Here.” He hands it over. “How’d you know?” he asks, though. Most people don’t guess that.

Of course, Zayn shrugs. “I watch people for a living.”

Harry huffs out a discontented breath. But he wonders what else Zayn sees, too, as he looks out the window. How much else of Harry he sees.

\---

It’s two more days before Harry sees Zayn again, because he can actually go places on his own if it’s not going to be publicized and he probably won’t be mobbed. So he goes to rehearsal, and meetings, and recordings; he goes shopping for tour; he hangs around Niall at the restaurant. If he maybe thinks about Zayn—wonders about him, wonders what he’s doing with his days off, how he’s spending his last days at home for a month, well, Harry likes to know about his employees, especially the ones who look like Zayn, and who act like they’re figuring Harry out.

But on Wednesday, Harry has an interview, so Zayn’s waiting for him in the car when he slides into the backseat. Harry’d taken a little while to get out there—he’d still had a bit of washing up to do, and had to fiddle with his hair even if the stylist was just going to redo it, because people would see him before he went into the interview, and maybe those ‘people’ were Zayn but that doesn’t really matter—so Zayn’s clearly not expecting him, and is once more still on the phone.

“No, Lou, she can’t,” he’s saying, as Harry opens the door. He nods, “I’ve got to go, okay? I’m working.” He pulls his ridiculous flip phone away from his ear—then pauses, as it’s clear the person on the other end is still talking. “No, I’m not putting him on. I’m working.” Another pause. “And now I’m hanging up,” he announces, and does.

Harry’s trying, not very hard, to hide his grin. “You could have put me on,” he points out, as Zayn gives another roll of his eyes and puts his phone in the pocket of his jeans. “I’m quite good to talk to.”

Zayn’s lips twitch. “Held off for your sake, not for his,” he replies.

“His?”

“My best friend,” Zayn explains, with a smile like when he talked about his sister. It’s maybe the most information Harry’s gotten out of him—he has a best friend. “He’s…” he trails off, then his nose scrunches up. It’s weirdly adorable. “A lot.”

“I have friends like that,” Harry agrees. “Well, I think I might be the friend like that?”

Zayn does his mini-smile. “You? Never.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “Hey, I’m enthusiastic. It’s a nice thing.”

“Clearly,” Zayn agrees. It’s nice, like this. To be talking and joking and teasing. Maybe they were right to get a younger bodyguard; this feels friendlier, like he’s with a mate. Like he’s with Niall, if Niall was a beautiful mysterious dark-haired badass, which he’s not at all.

But it’s that niceness that makes Harry remember what he meant to say. He drops his gaze, trying to bypass the rips in Zayn’s jeans as he does so. “I wanted to apologize for Saturday night. I didn’t mean to be bratty.”

“You weren’t,” Zayn slouches back in his chair. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. It’s unfair.

“I just—I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m not that bad, usually, I promise.”

“I’ve worked for spoiled brats.” Zayn shrugs. “You aren’t one.”

“Yeah?” Harry can’t help his grin, can feel how huge it gets. He’s mostly gotten over the horrible, overwhelming need that everyone like and approve of him, but still, Zayn’s approval feels nice. “Who else have you worked for?”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise. “You saw my resume.”

“Which ones were brats?”

Zayn’s doing his not-smiling thing again. “That’s confidential.”

“Is it? You’re not a doctor.”

“Nope.” Zayn mimes locking his lips. “Not unless you want me spilling all your secrets to my next client.”

Next client. Harry doesn’t actually know how long he signed on for, whether it was just the UK leg of the tour or for Europe or Australia or the US, but still, he doesn’t really like the sound of it, which is ridiculous because it’s only been three days. Harry’s had relationships longer than this, and that’s saying something.

Harry spreads his hands wide. “I told you, I don’t have any secrets. I’m about to tell everyone the truth on national TV.”

Zayn gives him an even, skeptical look. “Are you?”

It makes Harry laugh. “No,” he admits. “But still. I don’t have secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.” Zayn retorts.

“Do you?”

Zayn fucking shrugs. Harry’s going to tie down his shoulders soon. “Of course.”

“Like—”

“We’re here,” Zayn announces. Harry sticks out his lower lip for a second, because he wants to know, but he pushes that back quickly. He needs to be on form, because he can hear people outside, even though he bets they’re at the back entrance.

Zayn gets out first on his side—Harry hears screams that quiet quickly when it’s clear he’s not Harry—then Harry’s door is opening. Zayn’s there, loose and relaxed, his gaze moving everywhere, and he shuts the door behind Harry as Harry steps out.

Girls are yelling, and Harry waves and smiles and signs a few things, asking about the teenagers’ days and listening to their effusive praise. Then there’s a hand on Harry’s back, not heavy but present, like it’s just there to exist.

“We’ve got to move if you’re to be on time,” Zayn’s voice is warm and rough in his ear, and Harry can feel him close to him, and his lips are probably within touching distance of Harry—and Harry needs to get on track. He nods, to show he’s aware, then Zayn’s gone. Harry finishes up the line, and goes inside.

Inside, it’s a whirl of stylists and prepping and the interviewer introducing themselves and Paul giving him last minute instructions. It’s nothing Harry’s not used to; he smiles and nods and absorbs and then he’s on the couch next and the interviewer, a blonde lady with teased curls and a pantsuit on, is smiling at him.

He can do interviews in his sleep, by now, though he really tries not to—he owes the fans more than that. But he answers questions about the new tour, the fragrance he’s putting out, all that stuff. He jokes with the interviewer, says approximately three things that will spark new rumors by his count (he’s hoping for four, but he doesn’t think anyone noticed the last innuendo), and gives the camera as many cheeky grins as he can manage.

They’re nearing the end of their half hour when interviewer gives a pretty badly faked sweet smile. “So—and I have to ask, I know—is there anyone new in your life?”

“Why yes!” Harry replies. “I just met the nicest baby yesterday, his name was Timothy. Hello, Timothy!” He waves to the camera, makes a silly face.

The interviewer’s smile is less faked this time, and Harry counts it as a win. “But no one romantic, then? Because you’ve been spotted several times now with a mystery man, and England’s dying to know.” She hits a button, and a picture comes up on the screen next to them. It’s him and Zayn outside of the bar the other night. Taken without context, Harry can see where the gossip’s coming from—Zayn has a hand on his back, and Harry’s leaning in close to him. It’s as much as they usually get from him, with his flings.

Harry’s almost certain she was asked to ask this question. His PR team’s good enough to know that while no one questions big bulky men dressed in black around him, a young handsome man’s going to raise questions, as he’s never made any secrets about his sexuality. It’s better to preempt them, before the shipping wars and problematic rumors get started. He resists the urge to look at Zayn, hovering somewhere in the shadows near the wall, and answers.

“He is mysterious, isn’t he?” Harry asks. He leans back in his chair, and pauses for a second for emphasis before he goes on, “But no, that’s my new bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard?” The interviewer gives a politely skeptical laugh. “Can I sign up for one that looks like him?”

“No, I keep my sources secret,” Harry replies, chuckling. He winks. “Of course, I can’t say more. It’d be unprofessional. And I’m never unprofessional.”

He makes his most innocent face, and the interviewer laughs again, and moves on.

Harry does one of his songs after, then he’s done for the day, so he gets to go home. Zayn’s at the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s still expressionless, but Harry thinks there’s a smile in his gaze when he looks at Harry.

“Going home?” he asks. Harry nods—then pulls out his phone. He thinks Niall texted, and he wants to see Niall before he leaves…

He scrolls through a couple texts, some twitter DMs, and a few other notifications before he finds it—and there it is. “Actually, would you mind horribly if I went to a friend’s?” He asks, “I know you probably thought you were free after this, but he’s at his restaurant…”

“I’m at your disposal.”

Harry grins. “Dangerous thing to say, mate.”

“Really?”

Harry’s not allowed to sleep with him, Harry repeats sternly to himself. No sleeping with him means no flirting with him means he needs to stop before he tries, because he knows himself well enough to know where that was going.

“Yeah. Anyway,” Harry pushes on, “You can meet Niall! You’ll like Niall. Everyone likes Niall.”

“Sounds good,” Zayn agrees, and ushers him out the door.

\---

Zayn hesitates as they pull up to the restaurant, before he gets out. “I can just wait,” he suggests. “Don’t need to intrude.”

Harry shakes his head. He’s always felt bad making security sit around in cars or whatever, and it’s not like Niall doesn’t have a whole restaurant’s worth of room. And anyway, Niall will want to meet Zayn, after what Harry’s told him about him. “No, come in! Niall likes more people to feed.”

Zayn gives him another one of those look, searching looks, but he gets out, opens the door for Harry, and is a pace behind Harry as he trails into DIRECTIONS.

Niall’s been Harry’s friend since secondary, and he’s wanted to own a restaurant since he was in diapers, so this is basically his baby. Harry’s pretty proud of it too, both as a friend and as a silent partner—of the way it manages to be homey but also classy, welcoming but not overwhelming. It’s a good reflection of Niall, Harry’s always thought. The restaurant’s basically empty, given that it’s barely four, so the happy hour people haven’t come in to the bar yet, and the lunchers are done, so Harry waves to Kevin the bartender and heads up to Niall’s office.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door. That proves to be a bad idea, when there’s a weirdly placed chair the door rebounds on. Harry jerks back to avoid it, stumbles, windmills—then Zayn’s hands are on his waist, steadying him. It takes everything in Harry not to take advantage of this situation, as he’s learned to after years of clumsiness, to melt back into Zayn’s arms like feels natural. Instead he just takes a second to savor Zayn’s hands on him, the feel of them holding him up, more _there_ then they’ve been before.

“You okay?” Zayn asks. Harry really hopes he isn’t blushing when he nods.

“Yep! Happens all the time. Thanks!” He does not, however, have the willpower to actually step away, not until Zayn’s hands fall away and there’s really no reason to be standing that close except for how he wants to. “And stop laughing,” he orders Niall, who’s not hiding to stifle his chuckles at all from where he’s sitting behind his desk.

“Hi to you too,” Niall retorts, still laughing. “You do know how to make an entrance.” He leans back, shoves aside some paperwork. Responsibility looks good on him, as much as carefree life had too; in his suit with the jacket laid aside and his sleeves rolled up, his hair carefully styled out of his face, he looks like the very image of a business man. It makes Harry want to beam at him, at how far he’s come.

“I am the best at those,” Harry agrees, and plops into one of the chairs across from Niall. Zayn moves towards the wall, and Harry rolls his eye. “You can sit, if you want.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Any friend of Haz’s a friend of mine,” Niall inserts. He stands up a bit to shake Zayn’s hand, grinning at him. Zayn barely hesitates a second before he shakes Niall’s hand. No one can resist Niall.

“Well, I’m not exactly a friend of Harry’s. I’m—”

“The bodyguard, yeah? Harry’s told me about you.” Harry’s eyes widen, and he tries to communicate telepathically for the first time in his life for Niall to stop talking immediately, because there was some talk of just what he’d like Zayn to do to him or vice versa in those conversations that Zayn really doesn’t need to hear.

Thankfully, Niall must get the message, because he goes on, “It’s okay, anyone’s a friend of mine, not just Haz’s friends. You need to hear my stories, anyway. Need to know what Haz can get up to.”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s eyebrows go up, but he sits down in the other chair. He’s looking at Niall, clearly intrigued, and something twists in Harry, at the sight of Zayn’s steady gaze on someone else. He wants Zayn to be looking at him again, not Niall, who can make anyone comfortable.

“Wait!” he says, because he has to say something. “Let’s play the game.”

“The game?” Niall asks. Zayn just tilts his head slightly.

“The game,” Harry clarifies, “Like with Nick.”

Zayn’s lips curve upwards. “Same terms?”

“Sure.”

“He bet me he could guess if I’d slept with Nick,” Harry tells Niall. He keeps himself as perfectly still as he can, so Zayn can’t use his body language to guess. “He won five pounds off of me.”

“Big money.”

“And bragging rights,” Zayn adds, with something that’s almost a smile. The whole weight of his gaze is on Harry, like he can see through him, then it flicks to Harry’s side to Niall. Harry keeps on looking at Zayn. He needs—if Zayn doesn’t get this, it means something. It means he’s not as transparent as he feels, that Harry’s crush shouldn’t be quite as overwhelming as it’s quickly getting.

“And bragging rights,” Harry agrees, “I even told him what a sore winner I am, he still agreed.”

“And I won,” Zayn replies. Harry tries very hard not to smile, but he does. It shouldn’t give him any clues, and Harry likes to smile.

“So?” Harry prompts. “What do you think?”

Zayn gives him one more of those looks. “Fooled around when you were younger,” he starts, slowly, “But not lately, and never…seriously.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “How’d you get that!” He spins, so Niall can be just as astonished as him. Niall nods too. He doesn’t seem nearly as impressed. “You’ve only seen us for a minute!

“Told you, I’m good at observing,” Zayn replies, with a shrug. Then his lips curve again, and it’s a smile, a real smile, something wicked and funny and it makes Harry’s stomach turn to mush. “Also, at reading Niall’s lips.”

“Traitor!” Harry gasps, whirling to stab a finger at Niall. “Cheat. You’re a cheater.”

Niall just laughs, his fingers drumming over his desk.

“And you,” Harry turns his glare to Zayn. It’s hard to glare at him, when he’s basically smirking at Harry, and Harry would really like to see what else he could do to get him to smile like that. “You’re a cheater too. I’m not even giving you the money.”

“We never said how I’d figure it out.” Zayn doesn’t falter, or even react, it seems. “But if you want to renege…”

“I’m not reneging,” Harry mutters, and hands over the quid. Niall wasn’t supposed to betray him. Niall was supposed to help him to make Zayn…something. To help him get to know Zayn better.

“So Zayn,” Niall says, clearly bored of this conversation, “You did boxing, right? Would I know you?”

“Nah, I was never that big. And it was more MMA stuff.”

Niall nods enthusiastically, leaning forward. “Legend! Were you good?”

“Good enough.”

“Good enough to what?” Harry asks.

“To win some prizes,” Zayn says, shrugging. “Never tried to go big.”

“Why not?”

“Not what I wanted.” Zayn folds his arms over his chest, so his muscles flex and move under his tattooed sleeve. Harry will look away someday soon, he’s sure. “So this is your restaurant, then?”

“Yeah! Well, and Harry’s, technically,” Niall grins and starts to tell Zayn all about it. It’s a pretty unsubtle attempt at misdirection, really, but Harry lets it go, because Niall doesn’t have a right to push. Harry doesn’t have a right to push either, but there was something in Zayn’s face when he said it, something that hints about mysteries, and Harry likes puzzles. He also likes Zayn, and so he jumps into the conversation, because Zayn’s looking at Niall and not at Harry and that’s not okay.

They stay there for another hour, mainly Harry and Niall chatting, but they manage to get a few more words out of Zayn, before a call comes in and Niall holds up a hand to answer it. Harry watches him talk, how he keeps smiling but his face tightens and he starts to speak faster, and gets up.

“One second,” Niall tells the person on the phone, then puts it on the desk and talks to Harry, “Sorry! Delivery went wrong for tonight, I’ve got to deal with this.”

“Of course!” Harry knows it’s important, he knows that Niall’s busy and this job is important and it’s everything he wanted and it’s Harry’s money too, but—he’d hoped for more than an hour. “Will I see you before I go?”

“Probably not, I’ve got a big party on Friday we’ve got to prep for.” Niall comes out from behind the desk to give Harry a hug, and Harry wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, tries to get the Niall-ness of him, the sunny strength and easy support. “But it’ll be legend mate, I know it.”

“Always,” Harry grins, and makes sure he’s still grinning when he steps back. “Love you.”

“You too.” Niall holds out his hand to Zayn, who’s stood and moved behind Harry slightly. “Nice to meet you. Keep Harry out of trouble.”

“Hey, I don’t get in trouble!” Harry protests, so falsely that he has to add, “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“I’ll do my best,” Zayn tells Niall, and smiles at him, a real smile with his lips moving and everything. “Nice to meet you too.”

Harry’s never gotten that much of a smile, he thinks. It’s—Niall’s good at that, at getting people to smile, but still. So is he. The sunshine twins, his mum had used to call them, and he was just as good at it. Zayn should probably be smiling at him.

“I want pictures of any horrible mistakes!” Niall warns Harry, then picks the phone back up, and starts to talk into it about something that sounds like gloop.

Zayn’s holding the door open, so Harry leaves. He waits until they’re back in the car, on the way back to Harry’s, before he asks, “So, what’d you think?”

“He seems cool.”

“He is! He’s the best. Really.” Zayn doesn’t look away from his face, and Harry sighs. He’d never say this out loud to Niall, or even to his mum, or to anyone, but Zayn’s gaze seems like he’s asking. Like he knows there’s more, that Harry’s not saying anything, in a way Niall’s too busy to notice anymore. “He’s busy, you know? All the time. And so am I. And I’m hardly ever here, so I don’t really see him that often.”

Zayn nods, and Harry thinks there’s a hint of knowing in it. “Long distance is hard. Even friendships.” His lips thin, and his brow furrows a bit. “Even anything.”

“Right? I’m not complaining, I love it, the traveling. But still.” Harry shrugs this time. He’s not sure where this is coming from, not sure he’s ever even thought it in these words before. “I’m a busy bee.”

“The busiest,” Zayn agrees, and he’s not even laughing at Harry. Or if he is, Harry can’t tell.

Something buzzes. It’s not his phone, Harry knows, and Zayn jerks. His hand moves over his pocket, but then he looks at Harry, and his hand drops back down. “Do you—like, can I?” he asks, frowning. “I shouldn’t, but—”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Harry sighs. It’s probably his girlfriend. Because he’s not alone or anything.

Zayn nods, and pulls out his phone. He reads the text, then Harry watches with dry-mouthed interest as he bites his lip as he types out a reply, his teeth digging into the pink. He should probably outlaw that around them. For both their safety.

“Who was it?” he asks to distract himself, when Zayn puts his phone back into his pocket.

Zayn’s face is blank. “No one. Sorry about that.”

Of course he doesn’t want to tell. Harry turns to the window, to soak in London while he can, and so he doesn’t have to look at the stupidly hot man he for some reason thought would be a good idea to keep around him all the time.

\---

Harry’s going away party is loud and crowded, filling up the whole of the club Nick rented out for him. Harry’s not drunk, because he does have to get on a bus tomorrow and nothing’s worse than traveling with a hangover, but he’s well past tipsy, and all his friends are here, and he’s in a pretty good place, all around.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he whines, throwing his arms around Nick. Nick laughs, and hugs him back before letting go.

“Gonna miss you too, popstar. You’ll just have to give me shoutouts all the time.”

“All of them,” Harry promises. “I love everyone here!” he announces, loudly, and there are cheers from the people closest to him. It’s brilliant. Everyone here is brilliant, and tour will be brilliant, and—“Where’s Zayn?” He’s not anywhere. Harry’s been able to see him all the time when he was here, leaning against a wall, sitting at a table, never intruding but he’s been there, Harry could feel him. Harry had maybe been playing it up a little, dancing like he knew Zayn could see, because he really was going to get this crush under control sometime very soon. By the time they’re on tour, certainly.

“Feeling unsafe?” Nick retorts, “All your needs not being met? Need some mouth to mouth?”

“He’s not here,” Harry repeats. It’s crowded, so he does the logical thing and hops up on a chair, trying to see where Zayn’s gone. But he can’t see anyone. There’s one of the other members of his security team, but no Zayn, and Harry doesn’t like it. “Where’d he go?”

“Do you know the fans are already shipping you two?” Nick asks, idly flicking some non-existent lint off his shoulder. It gets Harry’s attention enough that he stops looking for Zayn and instead looks down at Nick.

“What? Do they know who he is?”

“No, what I saw on tumblr was ‘hot tattoo guy’.” Harry laughs, because it’s not inaccurate. But still,

“That’s—why?”

“Because they’ll pair you off with anyone with a pulse?” Nick suggests. His eyes skate up Harry, and it’s not nearly as nice as Zayn. “Are you going to get off the chair?”

“No.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest, sticks out his tongue. “I like it up here. Looking down on all of you.”

“Is the fame going to your head?”

“Nope, the alcohol!” Harry toasts Nick with his drink, then overbalances when the motion makes him move more than he expected. He’s not that drunk, it shouldn’t be doing this, but he stumbles and he tries to catch himself off the chair and then he’s falling, and—

And then there are hands on him, caught under his armpits, and Harry can smell the cigarettes and musk scent. He probably shouldn’t know it this well yet, and the mere touch of Zayn’s hands, the thought of him catching Harry, shouldn’t make Harry’s stomach twist and send giddy giggles to his throat, but the crush doesn’t have to be under control until tomorrow.

Zayn says something, but Harry can’t hear the words, just the rumble of his voice, and then Harry’s being set back on his feet. “Zayn!” he yells, grinning widely. “You’re back!”

“Lucky for you I am” Zayn agrees, almost smiling. He’s all in black and it’s the worst, from the tips of his boots to the top of his black button down shirt to his shiny ponytail, and Harry would not mind licking him. “Why were you on the chair?”

“I—trying to find someone,” Harry answers. He’s not drunk enough to say who. He’s got that much control. “Thanks for not letting me die.”

“It’s my job,” Zayn reminds him. Right, Harry probably did need that reminder. Even if none of his other bodyguards had ever managed to catch him when he fell like that, even when no one else ever had. It’s his job. It’s Zayn’s job. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m going, but Luke’ll be taking over for tonight.” He nods to the wall where the bodyguards are hanging out.

“No, where are you going!” Harry doesn’t throw his arms around him to hold him there, but he considers it. He likes having Zayn around. He hasn’t had much of it, but he wants more of it.

“I’ve got to go home,” Zayn replies, which isn’t an answer at all, and Harry sticks out his lip but Zayn just shakes his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. No more falling off of chairs, okay?”

“Well, not if you’re not here to catch me,” Harry agrees, with his cheekiest grin, and Zayn actually smiles, not a big one but his lips curve up and his eyes crinkle and its beautiful and wonderful and why is he going away.

But he just pats Harry on the shoulder. “Bye, Styles.” Then he’s gone.

Harry rubs at his shoulder absently, trying to rub away the fireworks from where Zayn touched him. Behind him, Nick’s laughing, not entirely his really amused laugh.

“What?” Harry demands.

Nick smirks. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

“Nick, he caught me!” Harry moans, and collapses back against Nick. No one understands his pain. “Did you see that? He actually caught me. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

“Booze,” Nick replies. It’s a very good point. “Lots of it.”

“Be drunk all tour. There’s a plan,” Harry groans, but he accepts the shot Nick acquired somewhere and hands to him. He’ll get drunk and maybe take the girl with the red lipstick over there up on her unspoken offer. The party’s a lot less fun with no one watching.

\---

Harry wakes up hangoverless, which he’s pretty proud of, given he’s not sure he remembered to drink any water the night before when he dragged himself out of the cab about—he glances at his phone—three hours ago. Ideally, he’d go for a run, make himself breakfast, take advantage of being in a house for the last time in a month, and for the last extended period of time in at least six months, probably, depending on if he feels like coming back here over breaks, which he probably won’t. But he’s late and he overslept and so instead he does a quick shower, throws on his trustiest outfit of tight jeans and a brightly patterned shirt, pulls a beanie on over his hair so he won’t have to deal with that until he gets to the venue, then grabs the bags he packed yesterday and a banana before he’s out of the house and into the car waiting to take him to the bus.

It always feels a bit like a school trip, the first moments of getting on the bus—how there’s two buses parked in a lot, and all sorts of people milling around with their luggage, sometimes with family too, all saying good-byes. It’s not particularly private, as Harry can see some fans and photographers hanging around the gates, but no one’s particularly close and as long as no one is expecting Harry to know what’s going on, he’s okay with smiling and waving and being pretty. He’s very good at that.

To that end, he hops out of the car with a grin for the driver, and sets off to find Paul. Usually Paul just tells him to go wait somewhere while he organizes all the roadies and security and hair and makeup and the other logistics, but he still likes Harry to check in.

Sure enough, he finds Paul holding a clipboard and looking harried. “Good, you’re here,” Paul snaps when he sees him. Harry doesn’t take offense at the snapping. Paul snaps at everyone for the first day, while he’s still making sure everything’s organized. “Go find Zayn, and don’t disappear.”

“I don’t disappear!” Harry protests. He doesn’t. Sometimes he goes and signs things for fans, sure, but he stays in the general area which he’s told.

“Find Malik,” Paul repeats, then whirls on the girl with her own clip board who taps him tentatively on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Harry leaves him to that. Find Zayn. He’s okay with that plan. Although…he pulls out his phone, switches the camera to look at himself. It’s okay. He should have maybe taken more time, done his hair, because it’s kind of messy now and he looks younger in a beanie, and he’s pretty sure Zayn already thinks of him as a lot younger, even though he’s not. Not that it matters. Because Harry has total control over this crush.

“Total control,” he repeats to himself, when he catches sight of Zayn. He’s standing next to a beat-up old sedan with two guys Harry doesn’t recognize. He’s got a beanie on too so his hair curls out underneath it, and he’s in black jeans and with a denim shirt open over a white tank top, and tattoos are showing above the tank top’s neckline. It’s a good thing Harry isn’t hungover, because if he was, he’d really have to go find some cold water to dunk his head in.

One of the other guys—shorter, with longish brown hair—says something, and Zayn laughs. The other guy—big, more like the bodyguards Harry usually has, but with an open, friendly face—throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder and pulls him in, and Zayn goes, rests his head on him. This is another thing that doesn’t matter, that other people are making Zayn laugh and get to hug him, because it’s been a week and Harry shouldn’t care and he couldn’t do anything if he did care, but he’s moving before he thinks about how he should leave Zayn to his good-byes in private.

“She’ll be fine, Zaynie,” the smaller guy is saying. He’s got a high, sharp voice, and it’s not especially comforting, but it sounds hard to argue with. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll love the time—”

“That’s not helping, Lou,” the bigger guy interrupts, “He doesn’t need to hear how she’ll love time away from him. But,” he adds, turning to Zayn, who’s still close to him, basically tucked under his arm. How is Zayn supposed to protect Harry when he’s held like that? It’s probably something he should stop, now. “It will be fine. You’ve got your phone, and you’re not going to be too far away. She’s not going to forget you.”

“I know, it’s just the first time—” Harry really doesn’t want to hear about this girlfriend Zayn’s so attached to he can barely stand to be away from her for a month, or see how Zayn looks with these men, and also he should probably stop eavesdropping, so,

“Hi!” Harry says, bouncing up to the group. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was told to find you, so, reporting for duty!” He does a little salute thing, which sort of distracts him from staring at how the stubble from yesterday has grown into an actual beard that looks like would feel excellent on Harry’s thighs.

All three of them look up. If Harry could look at anything other than Zayn, he’d probably notice that these other guys are also very good-looking, but as it is, he barely even registers that, because Zayn’s giving him a bit of a smile and it’s sending butterflies fluttering in Harry’s stomach.

“You’re Harry Styles,” the smaller guy says flatly, and Harry drags his gaze away from Zayn, tries to hold back on the stupid grin he can see on his face.

“Yep!” Harry holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is Louis,” Zayn tells him. Louis takes his hand, gives him a firm shake, “And Liam,” Zayn adds, gesturing at the guy who’s still hugging him. He looks like he’d be good to hug. Harry should probably try it out.

“Good to meet you,” Liam shakes his hand. His grip is strong, but it’s not possessive or anything, which may be a little more than Harry can say for himself. “I love your music! I think it’s really cool, what you’ve been doing, with the harmonics?” He goes on, and Harry can feel himself warming to him despite the fact that Zayn’s so easy with him. He’s so earnestly enthusiastic, it reminds Harry a bit of Niall. And also Harry’s not really good at disliking people.

So he grins back at Liam, and lets himself get drawn into a discussion about his latest album. He only notices immediately when Zayn slips away from Liam, and he and Louis take a step away, their foreheads touching, Louis’s hand on Zayn’s hip and Zayn’s on Louis’s shoulder.

“Sorry, you know all this,” Liam rubs at the back of his neck, laughing nervously, and Harry drags his gaze away from Zayn. “I’m just, usually when I meet people like you I’m working, so I can’t talk.”

Harry makes up for his inattention with a wide grin, and his most concentrated look. Zayn’s friends should like him. He wants them to like him. “No, I could talk music all day!” he assures Liam. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bodyguard too.”

“And a firefighter,” Louis adds, slinging an arm around Liam’s shoulder. Zayn’s suddenly next to Harry. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and also like all of Harry’s nerve endings are on edge in case Zayn touches him. God, he hasn’t had a crush this bad since he was fifteen. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back, got a train to catch.”

“Looks like things are getting ready to move here too,” Zayn agrees. He bites at his lip, and Harry glances away. “I—like, don’t—”

“Oh shut up.” Louis grabs him, hugs him tightly for a second, before he pushes him away again. Zayn doesn’t stumble, just goes with it like he’s expecting it. “It’s a month, don’t be stupid, and I’ll see you up north. And you,” he stabs a finger at Harry, “Behave for him. We give him enough grief here, he doesn’t need you acting out too.”

“I’m always good,” Harry replies, fluttering his eyelashes. Louis laughs, and Zayn snorts as well, but then he’s throwing his arms around Liam, and Liam’s holding him tight. They’re whispering something to each other, things that sound like ‘it’ll be okay’ and ‘I’ll watch out for her’ and ‘stop worrying’, but Harry can just hear the murmur of their voices. It’s sort of horribly intimate. Harry really has to try out this whole hugging Zayn thing.

Finally, after what feels like hours, they let each other go, step back.

“Okay, bye.” Zayn nods.

“We’ll miss you,” Liam says.

“I won’t!”

“We’ll miss you,” Liam repeats, elbowing Louis without looking. “All of us. Don’t worry about anything, we’ll call if anything comes up.”

“Tell her—”

“Stop fussing,” Louis orders sternly. “Go fuss about him.” He waves at Harry. “He’s the one who needs it.” With that, he opens the car door, slides in, and slams it shut.

Liam rolls his eyes at Zayn, and Zayn smiles back. It’s the most Harry’s seen Zayn smile. “See ya, Li.” Zayn says, and Liam waves before he gets into the other side of the car.

Zayn doesn’t watch them leave, just turns away, back towards the bus. His face is expressionless again, but now Harry knows how he can smile. Even if the stoic thing looks just as devastating with the beard.

Harry waits a second, then, when it doesn’t look like Zayn’s going to say anything, “Are you okay?”

Zayn shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Before Harry can point out why—leaving his friends, leaving his girlfriend—Zayn goes on. “I need to see Paul, so let’s go.”

Harry tags along as Zayn stops by Paul, then to the other bus, where he gets his wire. Harry even waits while he puts it on and fiddles with it, because no matter what Paul says he’s not a handful at all. And because he can distract himself by watching Zayn while he waits, and then distract himself from that by fiddling on his phone. Niall’s busy, and Nick’s at work, and everyone else he knows is probably asleep, so he can’t text them, but he can go on Instagram. He does an idle search to see if Zayn has an Instagram—he does, but it’s only visible for friends, and Harry has to ask him before friending him, because people will figure out who he is quickly then and Harry doesn’t want to out him. He doesn’t have a twitter, though, or a facebook it looks like. Somehow, Harry’s not surprised.

“Okay,” Zayn says. Harry jumps, and blushes guiltily. He wasn’t stalking, though. It’s normal to google employees, and friends. “I’m good. And we have like fifteen til we’re on the road.”

Harry nods. He could get on the bus, but the crowd’s growing outside the fence, and, “I should sign things,” he decides. Zayn nods, and he’s a few paces behind Harry as Harry goes to the fence, and meets the screams with his brightest grin.

It’s his favorite part, the meeting the fans, so the fifteen minutes blurs by in signatures and photos and just listening to their stories. There’s one, ‘what’s your bodyguard’s name? He’s hot!’ but it’s loud enough that Harry can pretend he didn’t hear it among all the other noise.

“We’re good to go,” Zayn’s voice is in his ear, and Harry nods and steps back.

“Thanks for coming!” he waves to the crowd. Some of them reach out, and he steps away far enough he thinks he’s out of reach before he turns around to go.

There’s a bit of noise—Harry glances over his shoulder, but Zayn’s between him and whatever’s happening. He likes that feeling. And anyway, it doesn’t seem to be anything but some people trying to push closer, and him trying to do anything about that would just make it worse, so he just keeps walking.

A moment later, there are more footsteps behind him, and Harry doesn’t know what it means (that’s a lie. He knows what it means, but he’s going to pretend he doesn’t) that he recognizes them as Zayn.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah.” The lot’s clearing out, people getting on buses or in cars or going home, so Harry goes right to his bus. Zayn follows him, but then he stops. “Have a good ride.”

It takes Harry a second to realize why Zayn isn’t going with him, but of course, he has his own bus, security goes on the other one. It’s one of the perks of being the talent, getting his own bus, and usually it’s nice to have his time alone, away from someone always watching him, but—

“You could ride with me,” Harry suggests, before Zayn can get too far away. Zayn pauses, tilts his head like a question, so Harry goes on, “I mean, it’s usually just me and sometimes Paul, and I don’t think Paul’s going to be there this time, and I bet the other bus is crowded.” He’s grasping, and he knows it, but it just—his bus sounds very empty right now, leaving London behind, and Zayn looks really good. Harry will start getting over that crush once tour really starts, with the first show tonight.

Zayn gives him a long look, like he can see right through Harry, but then he shrugs. He brings a hand up to his ear, and has a quick discussion with whoever’s on the other end of it—Harry’s never been entirely sure—then nods. “Okay.”

“Really?” Harry swallows, shakes his head. He’s not—well, he might be basically a teenager with a crush, but he’s also an international award-winning musician. “Sick, c’mon then.”

He pulls open the door to the bus, goes in first, but then he stops to talk to Dave the bus driver, ask him about his break and the kids and all, so by the time he’s done with that Zayn’s already in the lounge, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry rolls his eyes, and settles onto the couch, propping his feet up on the table. “Are you planning to stand the whole ride? Is it bodyguard conditioning?”

Zayn chuckles, and moves away from the wall, settling into a chair with the same open-legged slouch he seems to default to when not on duty. “We have to stand for seven hours a day, it’s in the contract.”

Harry beams, at the joke. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“My lips are sealed.” Zayn makes a motion like he’s locking his lips, and Harry snorts. It’s so not what he’d expect, sillier than Zayn’s been, but it’s still a good look on him. Maybe this is him in a good mood, which means a sharing mood.

“So,” Harry starts, as the bus pulls away. “Louis and Liam?”

“Yeah?”

Okay, so it won’t be that easy, “Who are they?”

“Friends.” When Harry gives an overly exasperated sign, Zayn gives a quick, almost blinding grin before it’s back to his usual stoicism. “They’re my best friends. Wouldn’t let me get away without a proper send off, Lou said.”

“Is that where you had to go last night?” Harry supposes best friends is a good enough reason to leave him. Even if he doesn’t particularly want to.

“Sort of. Wanted to spend the last night with family.” Zayn’s lip twitches. “I guess they count too.”

“That good of friends?”

“I’ve known Liam since forever,” Zayn explains. “We’ve been best friends since, fuck, since we were like seven. I met Louis in uni.”

“And now they’re friends too? That’s nice.”

“It is. They’re great, always have been.” Zayn’s got a smile on like he had when he talked about his sister, soft and fond and lovely. Harry runs a hand back through his hair, fiddling with the ends. “Sorta my rocks, here. Been with me through—through a lot.”

Harry could ask about that enigmatic ‘a lot’, like he could ask about how Zayn met Louis in uni when he didn’t finish, or about Zayn’s girlfriend, but he doesn’t. He wants Zayn to keep talking, and sensitive subjects make people shut up. He doesn’t want Zayn to shut up.

“But your family’s not here, right?” he asks instead. Zayn probably likes talking about his family. “Where are they from?”

“Bradford,” Zayn answers easily. “Up north.”

“I’m from Cheshire!” Harry exclaims. It’s not even a thing, really—it’s not like the cities are particularly close—but still, it feels like a point of commonality. Zayn doesn’t even give him a weird look for it, just smiles a little. He’s smiled more in the past few minutes on the bus than at all before. “Are they coming to a concert while we’re up there?”

“Should be. Saf—Safaa—was really excited when I got this gig, basically demanded tickets.” Zayn chuckles fondly. “Said I was finally useful for something.”

“Sisters,” Harry agrees sympathetically, “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” He loves Gemma, but she’s sort of the worst sometimes.

“Love ‘em, though.” Zayn’s still got that smile on. It makes him look a little softer, less hardened. Younger. All sorts of things that Harry probably shouldn’t think about for his own sanity. “And my mum was pretty excited too,” he adds, with a lopsided sort of smirk.

“Your dad, too?” Harry teases. “I love dads. Does he look like you?”

Zayn snorts. “No homewrecking, Styles.”

“It was just a question!” Harry raises his hands, palm out, but he knows he’s still smirking. “And I don’t mess with married men.” He says it before he thinks, then winces. He knows the rumors, knows everyone knows the rumors, and he’s never bothered denying because acknowledging them only make people assume he has something to hide. So he knows the question that’s coming next.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Zayn just chuckles again. “Nice of you.”

“Right?” The relief of it makes his smile wider. “I’m generous like that.”

Zayn just nods, and doesn’t respond. Harry could let the conversation die, pull out his ipod or his book, see what Zayn does, but it’s like Zayn’s looser here, in this enclosed space (maybe that’s what it is. He knows Harry won’t get attacked here) and Harry needs to take advantage of that.

“So your parent’s are okay with what you do?” he asks. It occurs to him after that it’s not the most tactful thing to say. “I mean, I know my mum would freak out if I was fighting.”

“My mum’s not thrilled,” Zayn admits. “But she gets it. And it’s all my dad’s fault.”

“Really? How?”

“He got me my first lessons.”

“Why?”

“Is this twenty questions?”

“Only if you haven’t been counting.”

Zayn laughs again. “I was bullied a lot, as a kid. Got into fights, kept on coming home beat up, ‘cause both Liam and I weren’t exactly good at, like, backing down? So one day my dad sees me with, like, a black eye for the third time that month, and he gets me boxing lessons the next day. Said that if I wouldn’t stop fighting, at least he could make sure I didn’t get hurt.” He grins, something mischievous in it. “Don’t think he expected this, though.”

“Why did you keep on with it?”

Zayn shrugs, the smile dying. “Liked not to be beat up, at first. And, like, I was good at it, and I needed money, but that was—later.” He shakes his head. “So, what’s your origin story, then?”

“I can get you the book,” Harry suggests. His origin story isn’t exactly a secret.

But Zayn just fixes that intent, unrelenting gaze on him. “Nah, that’s not your origin. Why’d you start to sing?”

Harry blinks. It’s not something people ask, usually. Why you auditioned for X Factor, sure. Why you wanted to be famous, sure. But not why he sings.

“I don’t know,” He says, slowly, “I just—always have. I’ve always loved it. I’ve never wanted anything else. You know?”

Zayn gaze shutters. “No,” he says, and leans back, like he’s pulling away. “No, I don’t.”

\---

Zayn falls asleep quickly once the bus really starts moving, which is a little sad, but has two pluses. First, it means Harry does have the time he likes to gather himself, to text Jeff in LA and a bit with Niall and Aimee and Gemma, without worrying about how he looks because Zayn would be watching. And the other plus side is he can watch Zayn, because he’s really utterly out, stretched out on the couch with one hand falling off the side and the other resting on his stomach. His face sleeping…is still pretty stoic, but it’s nice to be able to stare without anyone caring, as he texts his friends.

 _How creepy would it be to google my bodyguard?_ He texts Nick idly, once he’s gone through Instagram to his desire. He needs something to do, after all, and he’s not so good with the whole everyone else around him not being talkative thing. Ideally, of course, he’d sleep, but he’s a going til he’s not sort of person, and right now he’s still going.

 _NOT!_ Nick replies. He must be back home, because it comes almost instantly. _Googling anyone isn’t creepy._

 _It’s not invasive?_ Harry replies. He doesn’t exactly have perspective on this, he figures, because when he googles himself the amount that comes up is staggering and mainly false and what isn’t false is what he wanted out there, for the most part. He doesn’t know what it’s like not to have that. Nick’s not entirely better, but Niall’s probably working, and Gemma would laugh at him, so Nick’s his best bet.

_Internet stalking’s not invasive unless you’re hacking. If you find nudes, send them along?_

_If I find nudes you won’t hear any more from me, because I’ll be dead_ , Harry sends back, and opens his computer.

The first few things that come up are blocked social media things. Then there’s an article about an art show from University of Manchester, which Harry opens. The article doesn’t say much, though, just announces it and mentions Zayn’s name as one of the artists. It’s another nice detail, Harry thinks. He does—or did—art.

After that, though, is where the search bears fruit. The next thing is an announcement for a fight, with Zayn Malik versus someone called Leon Carson, and after that—after that is a link to a video. Harry opens that, puts on headphones just in case, and waits for it to load on the temperamental bus wifi. He gives Zayn a quick glance as he does, because it’s sort of weird to be doing this with him right there, even if it’s all public domain, but Zayn’s still fast asleep. His shirt’s ridden up a bit, so some skin shows above his belt, tanned skin and muscle and something that Harry thinks is ink before he decides that staring at him in general might not be creepy, but staring at his navel is, so he looks away, to where Zayn’s eyelashes are spread over his skin.

 _Find anything juicy yet?_ Nick texts. Harry makes a face at the phone.

_It’s been five minutes! And you could do this yourself._

_I’m not the one with a crush, though. This is much more fun._

_L_ Harry replies, and turns his attention back to the now-loaded video.

It’s an older video, from what looks like six years ago, so probably when Zayn was in college. He’s slighter than he is now, his face a little softer. His hair is slicked back up into a quiff, sides of his head shaved, and it’s hot but it looks like he’s trying to be sharp and cool in a way that’s endearing, especially compared to him now.

Then he takes off his shirt, which makes everything much better. There are—there are a lot of tattoos over the muscle there, and Harry refuses to let his jaw drop, but there’s ink on his chest and his hips and his sides and his shoulders and Harry’s seen even more on his arms now, so there’s probably only more. It’s a little devastating. And it’s probably only gotten better.

Harry watches as he tapes up his hands, talking with someone who looks like Liam from earlier and some other big guy. He’s grinning, clearly joking around as he bounces around, making mock jabs at the air and at Liam that Liam blocks with a laugh, as the other guy tries to tell him something in a way that reminds Harry of how Paul talks to him. He looks lighter, even when he ducks under the ropes into the ring. His opponent is bigger than him, a bit hulking and mean-looking, and even though Harry knows Zayn ended up fine his stomach twists a little at the possibility.

But when the fight starts, his stomach unknots a bit. Harry doesn’t know much about fighting, but the other guy seems to be strong but slow, and Zayn’s fast on his feet, ducking around punches, staying out of range of the other guy’s fists. It’s not an unfair fight, Harry doesn’t think, and pretty soon he has to cover his eyes most of the time because Zayn keeps on getting hit, knocked backwards and wincing. He’s giving it back, though, and he must be stronger than he looks because the other guy seems phased by his hits.

Zayn’s stopped smiling, his face set in the sort of blank, concentrated expression Harry recognizes, a fierce focus on his opponent. It shouldn’t be hot, Harry doesn’t approve of violence and especially not this, which is basically modern gladiatorial fights and people are betting on Zayn getting hurt and it’s so primitive—but god it’s hot, the sweat on Zayn’s skin, the way his muscles move, the way he moves, fast and deliberate. It’s not even really graceful, it’s just calculated, Harry thinks, efficient. Like he knows where he wants to be and then he’s there. It makes Harry wonder if he’d be like that with Harry too, if he’d be as deliberate with him, if—if nothing. Because he won’t. Because Harry can’t.

Instead of wondering, Harry focuses on the video, just in time to see Zayn slide close to the other guy, do something tricky with his legs, and then end up on top of him on the matt, pinning him down, all within seconds.

Harry shuts the computer before he can think. It’s—that’s not going to help, knowing that if he wanted Zayn could end up on top of him in seconds.

 _Beating people up shouldn’t be hot!!!!_ He sends to Nick. All he gets back is a row of various laughing emojis, along with a muscled arm, a boxing glove, and a heart. His friends are awful people, Harry decides, and instead of texting him back pulls out his phone to listen to music.

Zayn doesn’t wake up until they get to the venue, and then Harry’s rushed away for sound check. It goes well enough, and it’s also the first time Harry’s seen the band since his last performance on Sweden Idol, so afterwards he sticks around to chat with them until he has to get into hair and makeup. Zayn’s there when he sits down, and Harry makes a face at him in the mirror to get his lips to twitch until Lou hits him in the face with a brush to make him stand still.

“He start giving you trouble yet?” she asks, and Harry thinks for a second she’s talking to him, given that she’s tugging at his hair, but it’s Zayn who answers.

“Nah. No trouble.”

“Well, watch out for him.” She pulls unnecessarily hard, Harry thinks, and he whines. It’s useless—Lou’s been immune to his pouting for about three years—but he likes to make sure she knows it hurts. “He’s trouble, this one. Give him an inch, he takes a mile. And your boyfriend.”

“I did not!” Harry objects. “There was light flirting, that’s all.”

“Don’t give me that, Styles, I know your ways.” She sprays something at him, and his retort is caught in him coughing at the fumes. “He’ll take your kid, too,” she adds. “Lux was asking about you.”

“Yeah?” Harry grins, tips his head back so he can look at Lou. “She gonna come visit?”

“Maybe a bit. Now sit still.”

“I am!”

“See?” she sighs over-dramatically, and in the mirror he can see her turn to Zayn. “Trouble.”

“Well I don’t have a boyfriend for him to take,” Zayn replies, doing his not-smile thing. “So I should be fine.”

Lou laughs. “That’s what everyone thinks. Then he’s moved into your house for a month.”

“It happened once!” Harry protests again, because his friends are awful, but then Lou gives him new pictures of Lux to console him. It’s not quite good enough for making fun of him in front of Zayn, but it’s enough.

Zayn disappears as Harry’s finishing, when the show’s about to start, it sounds like, and Lou gives Harry a raised eyebrow look as Caroline releases him. “So,” she asks, giving him a once-over that’s less flattering than it reminds him of his mum. “That’s the new bodyguard?”

“Yeah.” Harry fiddles with the highest button of his shirt. He could probably get away with undoing one more. Fans don’t come to see him with his shirt buttoned, after all.

“That must be fun.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “He’s really nice! It’s going well.”

Lou snorts. “Nice, right. That’s what you like about him.”

“It is,” Harry declares, and goes off to find people who will be nice to him and not make fun of him because he made the stupid decision to hire the hottest guy alive as his bodyguard.

\---

There’s nothing in the world Harry loves more than performing, than the feeling of being on stage with everyone watching and his voice filling the huge room. And the first show is a whole other ballgame, the excitement of the crowd, his own excitement. The feeling that this is where he belongs, that it’s not his house or Holmes Chapel or London that’s home but wherever there’s a stage.

He’s on stage, then he’s not, coming off for a quick break to change into a sheer shirt he’s particularly fond of, then he’s back on again. He plays with the band, vamps to the crowd, takes all their screaming and rides so high on it he never wants to come down.

He’s still on that high as he comes off stage again, grinning so big he thinks it’ll take over his face. He always thinks he’s exaggerating it to himself, that this rush isn’t as big as he remembers, until it starts again and it’s back. Lou and Caroline congratulate him, Paul comes over to slap him on the back, and he laughs with the band—and then he can feel Zayn’s gaze on him and he turns to where Zayn’s watching, leaning against a wall.

“Zayn!” he bounces over. He’s gross and sweaty and a mess and he doesn’t care, he’s never felt hotter. “Did you see the show?”

“Most of it,” Zayn replies evenly. He doesn’t move, his arms still crossed over his chest, but he looks so steady and solid, like he could take all this energy swirling in Harry and help even it out.

“What’d you think?” Harry whines. He doesn’t need Zayn to like his shows—a lot of his previous bodyguards haven’t, a lot of his team now doesn’t—but he wants him to. Wants him to like this part of Harry too.

For a second, Zayn’s face is still blank, but then it breaks into a smile, bigger than anything Harry’s ever seen on him before. “It was good. Not my sort of music, but you were brilliant.”

“Hah!” Harry spins to stab a finger at Lou, who he knows is laughing at him and he doesn’t even care. “See? I’m brilliant.”

“You don’t have to tell him that,” Lou tells Zayn.

“No, you do,” Harry argues. “You should tell me that a lot. Can we put that in your contract? Must always tell me I’m brilliant.”

“I’ll make a note,” Zayn replies, still smiling. It’s brilliant. Everything’s brilliant. He even reaches out to touch at the collar of Harry’s shirt. “Don’t much believe in clothes though, do you?”

Harry scoffs, holding a hand to his chest. “I do! This is fashion, Zayn. I am fashionable.”

“He’s a mess,” Caroline inserts. “Never lets me finish, this one.” Harry sticks out his tongue, and she gives him an unimpressed look back. “Now you—you I could work with.”

Zayn chuckles. Harry loves it, everyone getting along, all his tour family all together.

“Okay,” Paul announces, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Time to go.” He turns to Zayn, gives him a look Harry can’t interpret. “Big crowds at the exit, tonight.”

“I’ll be good,” Harry rolls his eyes, and accepts the towel Caroline hands him to wipe the sweat off his neck. “Promise.”

“That’s a promise you’ve never kept,” Lou shoots back, and he gives her a cheerful leer back before going to find a jacket.

The crowd’s mad outside, first show and all, and Harry lingers, signing things that are thrust at him and talking and taking pictures as best he can. It’s his favorite part, and these people have waited ages, he knows; he hates the thought that someone would walk away disappointed. If he can make people happy just by letting them touch him, he’s going to.

So he listens to gushing girls and grins sympathetically at beleaguered parents and blows kisses. He knows he can’t get to everyone, but still, it seems like only seconds before Zayn’s hand is on his back again, heavy and warm, and his lips are so close to his skin. “Got to go, Harry,” he murmurs.

“Nawww!” Comes a general coo from the crowd, and Zayn jerks back, clearly surprised. Harry just grins. He’s really not surprised there’s already shipping, though he’s trying to put off people finding out who Zayn is as long as possible. It won’t be long, but he can at least try not to say Zayn’s name or anything.

He twists so he can reply, “Coming,” and it just so happens it’s close to Zayn’s cheek. Not that Harry was aiming that way or anything. He’s being good. “If you smile at them, they’ll probably faint.”

He expects a smile, or at least sort of one, but Zayn’s serious as he scans the crowd. “Wouldn’t want to risk it,” he drawls. He doesn’t move back, though, doesn’t even move his hand, and it’s more distracting than it should be, the fact that Zayn’s right there. It probably helps, honestly, because it diverts him from getting distracted by all the fans still clamoring for him. He calls out a few good-byes, some ‘I love you’s, and then he’s somehow been backed into the car and the door’s closed behind Zayn.

Zayn taps at his ear piece when they settle. “We’ll go get settled in the hotel,” he tells Harry, then pauses, clearly listening to instructions. “Then you can decide what you want to do from there.”

“Sounds good!” Harry scoots over so he can look out the window, see more fans. It’s mad, madder than it’s ever been, and his fingers are drumming over his knee and he thinks he might shake out of his skin.

That lasts about ten minutes. Then, almost all at once, the energy’s gone, and the exhaustion from not sleeping last night has hit him along with the adrenaline crash. He thinks he falls asleep, but all he knows is one second he was watching the lights of the city and the next he’s drifting back awake as the car slows.

He got a pillow from somewhere, he thinks groggily, because his head is resting on something soft and warm, and it smells like musky cologne and cigarette smoke. It’s so comfortable though, even though it’s moving, and it—Zayn, he realizes, too far asleep to think more than that—is talking, probably on the phone.

“How was she?” he asks, quietly. His voice is a rough murmur, and it sends shivers up Harry’s spine, hearing it this close, where he can almost feel the vibrations on Zayn’s skin. “Any problems?” A pause, then, “Yeah I think this’ll work, I could get away….thanks, Liam. It’ll be better in a few weeks.”

This is probably dishonest, Harry thinks, as he wakes up a bit more. What’s more dishonest is he makes sure to keep his eyes closed, to relax his breathing, because—because if he’s awake, he’ll have to move, have to put up those boundaries again, where he doesn’t sleep on his bodyguard’s shoulder no matter how good he smells.

The car jolts to a stop, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut harder. Asleep. He’s asleep.

“Got to go, give her my love,” Zayn says, and hangs up, before he taps Harry gently on the shoulder. “Hey, Harry. Time to wake up.”

Harry blinks, stretches. “Huh?” he asks, very convincingly, he thinks.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re not very good at lying, are you?” he asks, and just as gently tips Harry back up so he’s not on Zayn’s shoulder anymore.

Harry ducks his head, trying not to blush. It’s—he didn’t mean to eavesdrop on Zayn’s conversation with his girlfriend. Or, like, about his girlfriend. He just…happened to. More in his mission to learn more about Zayn, he figures.

“Huh?” he says again, because if there’s one thing he’s learned it’s that bravado can get you through most situations. “We here?”

Zayn’s lips twitch, but he lets himself be distracted. Or something, Harry thinks—there’s still something serious about him, more so even than usual, in the way he’s looking at Harry. “Yeah. Looks like it hasn’t been leaked, you should be okay.”

“Thank God.” Harry rakes his hair back from his face, and only ogles a little as Zayn gets out in front of him. He’s never been one to turn down a nice view.

Like Zayn said, no one had followed them, so they get into the lobby with no problems. Harry waits patiently as he can as Paul talks with someone, still mainly drooping from his nap. If he was just a little bolder—if he cared a little less—if Zayn wasn’t his bodyguard—he’s probably just wander over to where he was standing, lean on his back to go back to sleep, but he…can’t really dare. He’s already been forward enough. And what if Zayn has some sort of ninja reflexes that mean he hits people who come up behind him?

“Okay, here’s the key to your suite,” Paul says at last, handing the card to Harry. He gives another one to Zayn. “It’s a suite, so Zayn’ll get the other room.”

Harry blinks. He knows he’s not entirely awake, but that’s weird. Usually security has their own rooms a little ways away. Harry’s always figured it was to give them a break from him, which even he can admit is probably necessary. “In the suite?”

“Yeah, that okay?” Paul asks casually. Harry swallows. It’s okay. It’s perfectly fine. Zayn’ll just be asleep within feet of him. That’s a thing that will totally let Harry sleep.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Hopefully people will put the rasp in his voice down to his nap. “I’m gonna stay in tonight, I think.”

“Makes it easier for me. Let me know if you need anything. We need to be on the road by seven.”

Harry’s affirmation turns into a groan, but he nods anyway, and Paul swats at his head as he trots away.

\---

The room’s about what it normally is, the same as every other hotel Harry’s been in, so it’s second nature to stumble in, to drop his bag on the floor and fall into the bed next to it. He could just go to sleep like this. Just go to sleep, and not think about how Zayn followed him in. It is weird, though. That they’d make him share his suite. Not that he cares, but still. That they’re going to put temptation right there in front of him, like it’s a test. Maybe that’s what this is, a test of his will. Of how long he can last with a gorgeous, nice, funny bodyguard within arm’s reach at almost all times before he just starts rubbing himself against Zayn.

“Hey, Harry?” Zayn calls, from the main room. It’s not domestic or anything, Harry tries not to think. He’s known Zayn for a week. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. “Can you come out here?”

Harry really, really doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to leave this soft bed. But his traitorous brain also fills with fantasies of him coming out of his room to Zayn naked on the couch—Zayn all in black leather—Zayn grabbing him and kissing him silly—and anyway, it’s not that late, so he groans and gets up again.

Zayn doesn’t grab him, and he’s still dressed like he was, in jeans and his t-shirt. If anything, he looks serious, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s up?”

Zayn bites at his lip, his brow furrowing for a second before it evens out. “Sit down, please.”

Harry drops into a chair. This is—weird. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

“No. Not really.” He bites his lip again. This may be some sort of warfare, Harry’s sure. Or maybe he’s just doing it to distract from what sounds pretty foreboding. “I just, like, need to tell you something.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Harry jokes. Zayn doesn’t smile.

“Paul doesn’t think we should tell you.” It’s a pretty terrifying way to start out. Harry’s smile dies. “But in the end, it’s my call how I best keep you safe, and I think you need to know. I think you should know.” He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, but his gaze is dark and fixed on Harry, steady but not intense. “You’ve been getting threats.”

There’s a beat. Harry cocks his head. “I get threats all the time,” he points out slowly. “It’s part of the job.”

“These ones are more serious.” Zayn puts down some photos on the table. “They took these.”

Harry leans over. At first glance, they’re not that scary—he’s seen what feels like thousands of pictures of himself. But then he looks closer. There’s one in some signing line, barely a foot from him. One from the front row of a concert. One of his back, at an airport. One of him asleep on a hotel bed, close up but not grainy like it would be with zoom, like he was actually right there.

“That’s me in Sweden,” Harry gets out. It’s—he remembers that hotel, because it had weird patterns on its bedspread. “That’s—”

“Tech people say it’s the same phone as has been sending threats,” Zayn says, evenly. It’s good, that he’s even, that he’s steady, because Harry doesn’t know what to think. “They’re working on tracing it down. But this person has been sending in death threats, Harry, and they have gotten close. That’s why they hired me. And it’s why I’m in this room. I’ll be here if anything happens.”

Harry nods. He can’t—he doesn’t know—he’s not sure what to think. What he feels. The person was just so close. He might have touched Harry, in some of these. He might have. “Why—if they’ve been making threats, why haven’t they done something?”

“Because they want you to recant. To tell all the kids you’ve influenced that it’s not okay to be bisexual.” Harry snorts. He hasn’t even really dated any guys, or anyone at all in years. He’s never said anything. Not half so much as he feels like he should, sometimes. He didn’t do anything and now someone is watching him and they’ve been so close and—

“Hey.” There’s weight next to him on the couch suddenly, and a hand on his wrist, calloused and warm and Harry looks up into big hazel eyes. “I’ll keep you safe, okay? I promise. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“But—”

“No one,” Zayn repeats, and it resonates somehow, echoes in Harry’s head. “I promise. Okay? Hey, look at me,” he goes on, when Harry glances down, away, “Do you understand? You’re safe. I didn’t tell you this to scare you.”

“Well you succeeded,” Harry gets out. He swallows, to smooth out his voice. He thinks this would be torturous in another way in other circumstances, Zayn so close gazing into his eyes. But right now all he can think about are those pictures. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because some choices have to be made.” Zayn leans back, but his grip is still there on Harry’s wrist, not tight but anchoring. “I think you should make them. You aren’t a child.”

“Okay.” Harry swallows again, and pushes back the fear. He can. He knows how to push emotion down, to put on a good face. He isn’t a child, even if some people seem to think so. He can be in charge of himself. Probably. “What do I need to do?”

“I was watching you with fans tonight. There are a lot of them, and it would be easy for whoever this is to get close during it. It’d be hard for me to pick out a threat,” Zayn explains, in that same even, almost soothing voice. It makes it almost easier to hear. “We could deal with that, or we could limit access to you. Not have those lines. Keep people farther away.”

“It’s my choice?” Harry asks, though. It doesn’t sound like something he should choose. It sounds like something he’s not qualified for.

“The security team will make specific plans either way. But this is your call, Harry.”

“Shouldn’t it be Paul’s? Or yours?”

“If you want me to ask Paul, I will.” Harry can’t hear any judgment in the words. He can’t hear anything in the words. “But I wasn’t a child anymore at twenty-three, and I don’t think you are either. Which means you get to make these decisions.” He blinks, slowly, his eyelashes feathering on his cheeks. It’s easy to distract himself with that, with looking at Zayn. Easy enough to focus on the shapes his lips are making and not think about what he’s actually saying. “You can ask me anything you want. And I will go to Paul if you think that’s best. But I thought you should know.”

Harry closes his eyes. It’s easier to think like that, to close himself off from all the other distractions until it’s just him. Him, and Zayn’s hand on his skin. He takes a long, deep breath, like all his coaches have taught him, in and out. Like he used to deal with the stage fright.

Then he opens his eyes. “Do you think it’s serious?”

“It’s hard to tell.” Zayn shrugs. “A lot of times these aren’t. But the pictures do make it more immediate. And it’s always better to assume it’s serious.”

Harry nods. “What do you think?”

He expects Zayn to shrug. Instead he just gives him another one of those long, even looks. “It would be easier for me if you limited access.” He pauses, and Harry can hear the unfinished quality.

“But?”

“But,” Zayn goes on, slower. “I’ve never found that backing down from threats like these has helped, in the long run. Not in my experience.”

“You have experience?” It’s the wrong time to ask that, Harry knows, but it’s easier to think about that. To think about Zayn, not about this.

“I’ve had some threats made at me,” Zayn says. It sounds like it should be a confession, but he says it like it’s a point of pride. “I told you I was bullied a lot. And being a Muslim in a fighting community that’s often conservative isn’t always friendly. Which,” he continues, even slower. Almost like he’s reluctant to say it. “Is another thing for you to consider. It might be easier for you with a different bodyguard.”

“A different bodyguard?” Harry tries not to sound as high-pitched and frantic as he thinks it probably is, but he doesn’t want to think about Zayn leaving.

“Someone who makes these kind of threats probably won’t be happy with you having a bisexual Muslim Pakistani next to you.” Zayn leans back, away from Harry, and lets go of his wrist. It feels cold, like suddenly the fear is creeping back. “If you think it’s best, I’ll leave. I won’t call discrimination.”

Harry probably shouldn’t focus on the ‘bisexual’ part of that. But it’s the thing that sticks. “No,” he replies, probably too fast. “No. I want you. I want you here,” he amends, glancing away so Zayn doesn’t see what’s probably a blush. “And—” In and out, in and out. “I don’t want to hold back. It’s not fair to the fans that one person will scare me away from them.” He nods, mainly to himself. “I’ve got—it’s a responsibility, sort of. To them. I’m not hiding.”

He thinks Zayn is smiling. Maybe he’s making it up, because he did make Zayn’s job a lot harder, but he thinks he can see his eyes curve up. “Okay.”

“And besides,” Harry adds, trying to grin. “You’ll protect me.”

“I will,” Zayn agrees. It doesn’t sound like a joke, like teasing, and that settles in Harry’s bones, enough that he almost misses that Zayn’s going on. “So, protocol for right now—I’m going to check your room before you sleep, okay? The whole suite. And the door’s always going to be locked. If there’s—like, if you meet someone, I’d really prefer it if you come back here rather than going to theirs. And it’d be easier all around if you…” his tongue comes out, licking over his lips. “If you held off on that, for now.”

Harry watches his tongue. Watches his lips talk about sex. “It’s—don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

There’s a pause. Harry’s almost certain there’s a pause, like Zayn cares about that. He’s probably just thinking about how that affects his plans, but—but Harry can think that he’s considering reasons why it won’t be a problem for Harry, who’s not exactly known for his celibacy.

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. “In general, me or one of the other security guards will have eyes on you all the time. We’ll figure out what to do with signings and lines and stuff.” He shifts forward again, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And if you ever, ever feel unsafe, for any reason, you get me. Doesn’t matter when. Okay?”

“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse, Harry knows. Partly from fear, but partly because it sounds like a promise, like this beautiful lovely man is making him promises, and that hits something instinctive in him. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he repeats.

“Good.” Suddenly Zayn’s gone again, standing up and away from him. “I’m going to do a check of your room now, so you can get some sleep.”

Harry stands up too, mainly on instinct. It’s easier to be with Zayn. He doesn’t want to be alone with those pictures.

“Hey.” Zayn’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, his cheek, and it’s rough and warm and more comforting than a hand should be. “Hey, it’s okay.” His smile flashes, sudden and bright and certainly distracting. “You’re fine. I’ll just be a second.”

Harry grunts out something that he thinks is agreement. Zayn must think so, because then he’s gone. And Harry’s alone.

He turns away from the pictures, but that puts him looking out the window, and he doesn’t want to do that either. He wants to go home, he thinks. Wants to curl up in bed and pull the covers over his head and pretend it’s not happening.

It was easier to be brave and say things about responsibility when Zayn was here. When Zayn was here looking at him and promising he’d keep him safe and distracting him with his face. He needs—he needs to talk to someone. But he can’t call Niall, because Niall’s always been a little edgy about this side of fame and Harry doesn’t want to show him he might have been right. Nick’s the sort of friend he talks about the cute bodyguard with, but not this, not how he might be in real danger. He wishes he could call his mum, but he can’t do that to her, either. Can’t scare her like that.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket almost blindly, goes to his contacts and hits a favorite.

Gemma picks up on the fifth ring. “Hey, little brother!” There’s laughter in the background, and yells; she’s pretty clearly at a party. “How was your show?”

“Good.” He runs a hand through his hair, and takes a step back towards the corner. “It was fun, I’m back at the hotel now.”

“No crazy parties? I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have shagged at least three people by now.”

“All at once, or one at a time?” Harry’s smiling, or at least almost. He can’t not.

“Great, now there are images in my head,” Gemma complains. The sounds of the party are retreating.

“You started it!”

“You escalated.” Someone says something to her, and she laughs, and says, half-muffled. “Nah, just Harry. Why? Jealous?” Whatever the guy says, it gets another laugh before she’s back on the phone to Harry. “I didn’t expect to hear from you before we started planning all the LA things we’re gonna get up to, got to say. Something up?”

She’s laughing. Harry’s always loved the sound of his sister’s laugh. Loved how she loves this life he can give her, the parties and the fame and the bright lights, a little bit of pay back for all the times she defended him and believed in him and never doubted his dreams. He doesn’t want to sully that for her.

“No,” he says, sighing as his fingers tangle in his hair. Just talking to her has made it better. It’s okay. “Nah, just wanted to check in.”

“Well, you’ve checked in. Now go back to your boring life,” she teases. “Love you!”

“Love you too.” He hangs up before she can, then closes his fingers over the phone, squeezes it tight. He’s okay. He’ll be okay.

“Harry.” Zayn’s voice is rough and solid in the room, somehow filling up all the corners until it feels like he’s there. Harry looks up. Zayn’s standing in the doorway from Harry’s room, and there’s something just kind about him. Something comforting in the sight of him, more than there probably should be. Maybe it’s just that Harry’s seen those videos, is pretty sure he can take care of anything. Or maybe it’s just something in his bearing, like he can carry more burdens than it might seem. Or maybe it’s just that gaze, that makes it feel like he sees all of Harry, even the scared parts, and doesn’t judge. “Your room is clear. Get some sleep. It’ll feel smaller in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Harry nod, gives his hair one tug to anchor him. “Yeah, okay.” He can do that. He thinks he needs to do that.

But as he’s walking past Zayn, Zayn touches his shoulder to stop him. “I’m serious,” he says. He’s so close, mere inches away, and Harry thinks he could count every one of his eyelashes. He has a freckle in one eye, Harry hadn’t noticed that before. It makes him charmingly asymmetric. It’s easier to focus on that then on going into that room all alone. “If you feel unsafe at all, come find me. Even if you think it’s stupid. It’s better to be stupid and safe.”

“I know.” Harry manages a grin. “Wake you up all the time, got it.”

“If you must.” But Zayn’s lips twitch. “Go to bed. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, mum,” Harry shoots back. Which, actually, on second thought, is pretty weird and creepy and he shouldn’t think about it. But Zayn had said he wasn’t a child, so he shouldn’t treat Harry like one.

Zayn just shakes his head, fondly Harry thinks, and shuts the door behind him.

Harry groans. He gets ready for bed in what feels like record time, and falls into the hotel sheets almost as quickly. He can’t think about the risk. About what might be outside those walls, outside the drawn curtains. He’s not a child, and he’s not afraid of monsters under the bed.

So instead, he shuts his eyes, rolls over onto his side, and daydreams about just how he might prove to Zayn that he’s not a child until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying so far! Next update will be Monday.

Zayn’s right, as it turns out. It is easier in the morning. When Harry’s not exhausted and crashing from adrenaline, when Harry can feel the sun on his skin, it’s a lot easier to not think about the threats. Because he really doesn’t have to, Harry figures. He’s aware of it, and he’s glad of that, but really that’s for Zayn to think of. And it all might come to nothing, he said.

So Harry more or less does ignore it, because that’s a lot easier. He falls back into the usual tour routine, waving at fans and paparazzi and signing things and singing his heart out and meeting new people and crashing and partying, all his normal things. If he’s in danger, Zayn’s always there anyway, watching Harry.

Which—well, maybe Harry hasn’t entirely managed to get a hold of his crush in the month they’ve been on tour so far, but he will. By the time they leave the UK, definitely. He’s already getting a little better, Harry thinks, because Zayn touched him the other day and he only got butterflies, didn’t even shiver with how Zayn’s calloused fingers felt against his neck.

It would just be so much easier if Zayn was just a pretty face. Or a pretty face and a really nice body. But it’s even worse, because he’s nice, too. He lets Harry fall asleep on his shoulder and he always listens to him talk and he never seems like he judges Harry when he’s falling down drunk. And he gets along with everyone on the team really well. Harry’s about ninety-five percent sure Caroline likes him better than Harry, with how they whisper sometimes when Harry’s getting made up, and how she keeps on trying to get Zayn to wear some of the clothes Harry gets. Zayn always refuses, even when Harry jumps in with his best pout, because if he’s this bad in his jeans and leather jacket Harry’s a little scared of what he’d be like in a suit.

And that’s the part that’s getting worse. Harry’s sort of got a handle on the physical attraction—he’s not sure he could ever be fully used to Zayn’s face, but prolonged exposure at least makes it easier—but Zayn’s gentling, too. He’s smiling more, at Harry at least, grins that make his nose crinkle and his eyes narrow into crescents. Once, Harry got him to giggle, and Harry’s pretty sure his heart stopped as Zayn’s shoulders hunched and he curved in on himself, tongue tucked against his teeth. He’s nice and gentle with Harry and funny and so pretty—and he’s a mystery, too.

Or at least, Harry thinks he’s a mystery. There’s definitely something. Harry thinks it has something to do with his girlfriend, because he’s always on the phone, to her or Louis or Liam or his parents, but he’s never said anything about her. It seems weird. Admittedly, Harry doesn’t have any personal experience, but with most of his friends who have had significant other, they’ve never shut up about them. At least they’d mentioned their names. But Zayn’s never said anything, at least not to Harry, and it’s definitely weird. Harry and Nick have theories about it that range from her being married to her being a spy. But it means he’s a mystery, and Harry’s never been able to resist that.

And it means it’s way too easy for Harry to forget she exists. He knows that shouldn’t be the main barrier to him flirting, because Zayn works for him, but remembering her reminds Harry to hold back. Otherwise, well, he’s a flirty person. It’s second nature to flutter his eyelashes when he wants something, to compliment Zayn when he’s looking particularly good, to throw out an innuendo or two if the situation arises. And when Zayn’s with him almost twenty-four seven, except when he disappears to go talk on the phone, the situation arises a lot.

“Which do you think looks better?” Harry asks, pursing his lips at the shirts in front of him. There’s really no reason to go shopping in Manchester, of all places, but he’s got a day off here, as a breather, and he felt like getting out of the hotel.

He doesn’t have to look behind him to know Zayn’s giving him his raised-eyebrow, skeptical look. “I think you have the money to buy both.”

“That’s not the point,” Harry sighs. “It’s no fun to shop like that. And anyway, they’re too similar, I don’t need both.” He glances between them again. The one’s a brown and gold sort of calico button down, and the other’s brown and green, in a similar pattern. “Which one, Zayn? I need input.”

There’s movement behind him, then Zayn’s next to him, their arms brushing. He always feels like he just appears places, he moves so quietly. Niall claims he’s a ninja, and Harry’s not sure that’s not true. “This one,” Zayn says decisively, touching the brown and green shirt. “Brings out your eyes.”

Harry grins. “Think my eyes are worth bringing out?” he asks, fluttering his eyelashes. Zayn rolls his eyes, fondly, Harry thinks, then he’s moved back.

“I think your fans think they are.”

“They think all of me is wonderful,” Harry retorts. “Or, well, usually.” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s been getting mixed comments on it lately, and it’s not like he cares, really, but it’s never nice to hear. He wishes he were like Zayn, who can wear anything and still look breathtaking. But then again, Zayn doesn’t have millions of people analyzing his every breath.

“All of you is wonderful,” Zayn replies, his lips curving up. Harry has to grin back, at that. “Even your hair. No matter what people say.”

That’s not fair, Harry thinks in frustration, even as he can feel himself light up. It’s not fair for him to say things like that too. “Thanks,” he mutters. He’s never been shy before. It’s a weird feeling. He doesn’t think he likes it. “I’ll get this one, then.”

“And then back to the hotel?” Zayn asks, more eager than he probably means to, and Harry laughs. He can do this.

“Well, I was thinking about going to another store…” he teases, and Zayn wrinkles his nose at him. It makes him look younger, almost more Harry’s age, almost like they’re just friends going out shopping. Or like he’s Harry’s boyfriend who he’s dragged shopping with him, and really, Harry’s got control of himself. Maybe he does need to go out, find someone, despite the threat. The problem is it’s hard to do that when the guy he’s got this souleating crush on is always there with him, watching him flirt with other people. It throws even Harry off his game.

Harry pays for the shirt, signs the paper the clerk asks for, then, mainly to annoy Zayn, he chats with her a little, asks her about her day. It’s not entirely satisfying, being a shit to Zayn like this, because Zayn’s a pretty patient person and he never really seems bored, but Harry’s getting better at reading him and it seems like he’s shifting around a little.

Harry makes him wait five minutes, because he can, before he bids the clerk good-bye and heads outside.

“She was interesting, wasn’t she?” he asks, squinting a little at the bright light. “Really had a lot of cool things to say.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Zayn retorts, chuckling. He falls back a pace, like he always does when they’re outside. It makes Harry a little uncomfortable—it feels weird and sort of elitist—but it also draws lines Harry’s maybe not so good at drawing for himself. “Do you want me to call the car, or—”

“Hey!” The call comes out, and suddenly Zayn’s in front of Harry, between the sound and him, and Harry’s breath goes out of him at the movement and Zayn’s hand tight on his shoulder and what’s happening? Someone’s coming at them and he’s big and there’s just Zayn and—

“Zayn!” the big guy calls, and Zayn gets out a,

“Cam?” before suddenly the big guy’s throwing a punch at Zayn’s shoulder.  Harry flinches instinctively at the sight of a meaty fist coming towards him—but Zayn knocks it aside with barely a thought. “Fuck, mate. You can’t do that.”

“Wanted to see if you’d slowed down in your old age,” The guy retorts. Now that he’s stopped attacking Zayn, Harry can actually focus on him. It doesn’t make him less scary, over six feet and beefy, with a tattooed sleeve on both arms and his head shaved. But he’s grinning, even if it’s not exactly a settling expression.

“You’re older than me,” Zayn replies evenly. “And you’re lucky I didn’t take you down.” Something about the way he says it, the quiet confidence that he can, is sort of horribly hot.

“Like you could. You’ve been out for what, four years?”

“Five. But not out of practice.”

“Yeah, I heard.” The guy’s eyes go over Zayn’s shoulder, onto Harry. “Teenaged girls challenging you now?”

Harry’s not sure who this guy is, but he does know he’s not attacking, and also that Harry’s never been good at staying out of conversations. “Teenaged girls can be fierce!” he inserts, and holds out a hand. “Hi! I’m Harry.”

The guy takes it, shakes. His grip is hard enough Harry winces a little, but he keeps his smile on. This isn’t the first time he’s stood up to bravado. “Cameron,” the guy replies, “So you’re the one bossing Malik around nowadays?”

“I try,” Harry agrees easily. “He’s pretty hard to boss. Bad employee, you know.”

The guy gives him a long, hard stare—then tips his head back and bursts out into a big belly laugh. It’s pretty jolly, really. It must spark something, because it suddenly connects where Harry saw him before—he was in the video, in Zayn’s corner with Liam. “Always was a rebel, this one,” he agrees, smashing his hand onto Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn doesn’t sway with it, though he’s doing his thing where he’s pretending he’s not smiling. “Never good at following rules.”

“Never got disqualified, did I?”

“Nah, you were just a sneaky bastard.” Cameron laughs again. “I was his first fight, you know,” he tells Harry, lowering his voice to what he might think is a whisper. “Scrawny little kid, thought I’d take him out in one hit. But then—”

“Can we save story time for later?” Zayn interrupts. Harry tries very hard not to pout. This sounds like a great story. Zayn’s never really said anything about his time fighting. Or about himself, in general. “We shouldn’t stay in the open long.”

“This a war?” Cameron asks, and Zayn does snort at that.

“Feels like it.”

“Hey! My fans are nice.”

“Sure, but they zerg rush.”

“What?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Never mind. Cam, it was good to see you, but—”

“Hey, you in town tonight?” Cameron interrupts. “You could come back. I’m doing some organizing now, and there’s a spot open I’ve been trying to fill.”

“No.” The word is firm, solid, like it physically exists. But Cameron punches him in the arm again.

“Come on, Malik. Afraid you couldn’t stand up to the new blood?”

“I know what you’re doing, and no.” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, but Harry’s gotten better at reading him, and he thinks he sees a glint in Zayn’s eyes.

“It’d be doing me a huge favor,” Cameron tries, “Be a big fight, if you did. Imagine it. You could kick some young buck’s ass, prove you’re still the best. No matter what people say, about how Frankie-boy’s better than you’ve ever been—”

“I beat him then and I can beat him now,” Zayn snaps, then presses his lips together as Cameron grins. “No, Cam. I’ve got a job. I can’t.” It sounds reluctant, almost sad, and Harry doesn’t like that. If Zayn wants to fight, he should. It’s as simple as that.

“Is this you fighting?” Harry inserts, going for innocent. “Because that sounds cool. I’ve never been to an MMA fight.”

“Then go to one in Vegas.” Zayn turns his dark gaze on him. Harry resists the urge to flinch away in favor of a cheeky smile. “Because I’m not.”

“Come on, Zaynie,” Harry pouts, winks at Cameron over Zayn’s shoulder. “You need to stay in shape, right? I need you to be the best, so you should probably practice.”

“Harry—”

“I need you to definitely be able to beat anyone,” Harry goes on, “Shouldn’t I see if I’m getting my money’s worth paying you?”

“You should,” Cameron agrees. “Sure, Malik used to be the best, but that could have changed. Probably has. Actually, maybe you shouldn’t, wouldn’t want to lose your rep—”

“Stop it, both of you.” Zayn interrupts. He sighs, but Harry thinks he’s grinning on the inside. “I’ll get so fired.”

“You won’t, actually,” Harry points out quietly. “I’m your employer, not the label. So you can’t be fired unless I say so.” He doesn’t say why he looked that up—just in case, to see how wrong it would be—but it’s true nevertheless. No one can take Zayn away unless Harry says so. “So if you want to prove yourself again, you could.” He gives his best dimpling smile. “I could order you to, if it would make you feel better. Or I could go anyway, really.” He turns to Cam, still grinning. “Right? You could get me in, then he’d have to go to keep me safe.”

“Sure could,” Cameron agrees, laughter rumbling in his voice. “I—”

“Fine!” Zayn sighs, runs a hand back through his hair. “Fuck, Louis’s going to kill me.”

“Is that a yes?” Harry demands excitedly.

“My mum’s going to kill me,” Zayn goes on, with a long-suffering sort of panic. “Just, dead. No remorse.”

“Great! I’ll set it up. Normal time, password’s phoenix.” Cameron slaps Zayn on the back.

“Fuck you too,” Zayn retorts, but Cameron’s already lumbering off, so Zayn just glares at Harry. “And you.”

“But I want to see you fight!” Harry whines, and throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder. It’s chummy, really. He’s very chummy. Him and Zayn, they’re the chummiest, just two lads. “Not a crime, is it.”

Zayn bites his lip, like he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Sort of is, in this case.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t exactly realized that this wasn’t all aboveboard. But still. He thinks actually seeing Zayn fight, like in those videos, would probably be worth it. “Well. We should go back now, right? You need to get rested!”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs again, long-suffering. “We’re never telling Paul.”

“Or course!” Harry chirps. “Now call the car, we need to go.” He gives Zayn a final squeeze, just to encourage him and only a little to feel the muscle under his skin, then lets go.

\---

“You’re wearing all of this,” Zayn says, sternly, and he tugs a hood up over Harry’s head. “And you will keep your head down and not draw attention to yourself. Be circumspect, watch what you say. And if there is ever— _ever_ —a moment when you feel threatened, you will yell for me or Cam. No exceptions. I don’t care if I’m in the ring, you call me.”

“You’ve said that, Zayn,” Harry sighs. This was supposed to be hot, Harry going to watch Zayn fight. Not Zayn dressing him in about six layers of his baggiest clothes like he’s going to be jumped at the door. “I’ve managed not to get killed in twenty-three years, I’ll be all right tonight.”

“That’s not—” Zayn huffs out a breath, and pulls the hood down a bit more, his eyes cast down so Harry can imagine he’s looking at his lips. Then he looks up again, and he’s so fucking close that Harry’s breath catches, with that and how he’s staring at Harry like he’s seeing through him, intense enough that in another world it’d be the prelude to a kiss. “Look. This is illegal. This is underground fighting. I did it to make money and, yeah, because I’m good, but if you get caught there…and not all the guys are like Cam. Cam’s good. Some of the other guys would sell you out, or they would rough you up because they’re jealous, or just because. And they’re not teenaged girls, I couldn’t protect you if I’m outnumbered.” His hand tightens on Harry’s shoulder. “So you’re going to…”

Harry swallows. He knows it’s because it’s Zayn’s job, maybe a bit because he’s fond of Harry, but it’s so easy to pretend the fierce protectiveness is for another reason. That there isn’t anything that matters to him more than keeping Harry safe.

“Keep my head down and not get noticed,” he repeats obediently. “And yell for you if there’s a problem.”

“Good.” Zayn’s hand falls from his shoulder, only to run back over his own ear. “You could stay here. I don’t have anything to prove, really.  I don’t have to fight.”

At this rate, they’re never leaving. And yeah, it’s illegal, but Harry’s always been up for an adventure. "We’re going. Do you have everything you need?”

“Except common sense?”

“Overrated. Let’s go!” He has to literally drag Zayn out the door, but from there on it’s easy, really. He’s had more practice than he probably should have in sneaking out of and into hotels, and it’s a lot easier with security than when he has to hide from them. He lets Zayn hail the cab, keeps obediently quiet as Zayn gives the address.

“And don’t drink,” Zayn says, like he’s picking up a lecture. This is really not helping Harry get Zayn to treat him as more than a kid. “These are big guys, they’ll drink you under the table. If you get something, keep an eye on it.”

“They’re not going to drug me,” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Not if you don’t give them the chance.” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, tips his head back. At least he’s in baggy clothes too, sweatpants and a hoodie that looks about two sizes too big on him and has a fire department logo on it, with his hair back in a tight ponytail. Maybe it’s the oversized hoodie, but he looks smaller than usual, smaller than Harry, really. “I just—I won’t be able to take care of you, not if I’m fighting too.”

“I can take care of myself.” Harry grins, more touched than he probably should be. “You focus on winning, or whatever.”

Suddenly, Zayn’s grin flashes, a bright sharp flash of white teeth. “I don’t need to focus on that.”

They pull up to what looks like an alley, and Zayn pays the cabbie before they get out. It’s only when Zayn knocks on the wall that Harry realizes it’s actually a door, so old that it basically blends into the wall.

The door swings open, and there’s a massive guy there, so big he fills up the whole door and Harry can’t see past him. Okay then. Maybe Harry gets why Zayn’s nervous a little bit, as he’s suddenly behind Zayn. It’s intimidating.

“Phoe—”

“Zayn Malik,” the guy interrupts. He’s not grinning, not as friendly as Cameron, but he nods easily enough. “Thought you were out.”

“I am.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Got bullied back into the ring for a round, though.”

“Doesn’t sound like it bodes well for you.”

“I’ve kept in shape,” Zayn replies coolly. “Can we get in?”

“Sure.” He steps aside. “Who’s your friend?”

“A friend. Wanted to watch.”

“Sure he’s not the only one,” the guy shoots back, “You always did draw a crowd, pretty boy.”

Zayn doesn’t respond, just pushes through. Harry sticks close to his heels as they get past the bouncer.

It’s basically what Harry had pictured. There’s a ring in the center, chairs around it; in one corner is a bar, in another what’s probably the bookie. Men and women mill around, most watching the fight, but some just chatting at tables, some talking intently in corners. There’s no music, so the only sound other than talking is the crunch of fists and the occasional scrape of a chair against linoleum.

“Stay with me,” Zayn mutters out of the corner of his mouth, as he weaves easily through the crowd. There’s something different about him here, something changing in him even as they walk. He’s sharper, maybe. Colder.

“Yeah.” He’d have done that even without the warning, Harry thinks. He’s good with new places, new people. But this is totally outside anything he’s known. He’s more posh bars and loud clubs than this.

It’s no better when they get where Zayn’s headed, which is apparently the locker room. It’s no better than anywhere else, old metal lockers and graffitied benches and walls. Zayn, though, grins when he sees it, crosses the room to look at a particularly decorated locker.

“Didn’t think this would still be here.”

“What?”

“My locker.” He traces over the lines of sharpie. Harry looks closer. When he actually looks, it’s not just graffiti—or it is, but it’s not like dicks or anything. It’s swirling abstract lines and big blocks of color, violent jags and gentle arcs. It’s actually beautiful. “Did this when I’d get nervous.”

“Were you here a lot?”

Zayn shrugs. “Had to make spending money somehow.”

 Harry glanced around. There was dirt everywhere, it looked like. “And you couldn’t have just worked in the library?”

Zayn shrugs again. “Nah. I—”

“Good, you’re here!” Cameron appears in the doorway, and Harry manages to keep from pouting. Zayn had been about to tell him something, for once. “You’re next up. Need anything?”

“Tape?” Zayn asks. Cameron nods, and goes to a different locker and pulls out some tape, that he tosses to Zayn.

“Your odds are pretty fair,” Cameron starts talking, as Zayn sits down to start wrapping the tape on his hands. “Frankie-boy’s good, but people still remember you well enough that they’re willing to stake some money on it. I did,” he adds, then turns to Harry. “You betting?”

“No,” Zayn snaps, but Harry grins.

“Sure! I’ll put money on Zayn.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Keep an eye on him?” he asks Cameron, who nods.

“Okay. Come on, Styles. Let’s get you settled.”

“But—” Harry glances at Zayn. He wants to stay with him.

Zayn, though, shakes his head. “You’ll be fine with Cam. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry reaches up to run a hand through his hair, then remembers the layers of hoods over it and lets his hand fall to his side instead. “Okay.” Zayn doesn’t want him there, he won’t push. It’s not like Zayn wanted him in this place at all. But he doesn’t entirely want to go back out there without Zayn to stick close to.

“Don’t take it personally,” Cameron tells him as he ushers Harry out, “He likes to be alone before a fight. I’ll look after you, though,” he assures Harry, and leads him into the crowd.

Harry might have been nervous, but within ten minutes he’s forgotten that. He’s not particularly good at being nervous, and Cameron’s the kind of guy it’s hard to be nervous around, friendly and easy and welcoming. More importantly, he answers Harry’s questions, so by the time they sit down Harry’s gotten a beer, has put some money down, and is listening enthusiastically to Cameron’s story about the first time Zayn fought.

“He was tiny, really. Way out of my weight class, I don’t know why anyone thought they could put him in. But then he went at me and god, he didn‘t hold anything back!” Cameron laughs delightedly. “Fast, too. So much potential, I had to go see him after I took him out.”

“You won?” Harry demands.

“Of course. He was barely eighteen, he didn’t have any idea what he was doing. But I knew he’d be big. And he was. Basically the champion, by the time he left.” Cameron gives the ring a nostalgic sigh, like he’s not even seeing the blood that’s making Harry wince away.

Instead of focusing on that, he asks, “Why’d he leave?”

Cameron raises both eyebrows at Harry. “Curious, aren’t you?”

Harry grins innocently. “Always.”

Cameron doesn’t seem fooled, but he does answer. “He never said. Just stopped showing up one day. Heard through the grapevine he’d dropped out of uni, started bodyguarding. I was closest to him here, probably, but I never heard from him again, not until today.” He pauses, then, “I didn’t expect him to bring you. Thought he would get a night off.”

“I’m hard to get rid of,” Harry explains. It’s basically true. He knew Zayn would have preferred it if he had left Harry behind. But Harry doesn’t really know how to explain to him how he just feels safer with Zayn than anywhere else, even in a place like this. That he just wants to be with Zayn all the time. That his crush is getting a little bit too out of control for him to handle.

“Yeah, I can—”

“Hey, McIntyre,” a deep voice interrupts. Harry glances up—then quickly back down, remembering what Zayn said about people recognizing him. These guys look a lot like Cam—shaved head, tattoo, bulky muscle—but there isn’t that jolliness in their eyes. “Heard pretty boy’s back.”

“He is,” Cam agrees. “Bit of a reunion tour, you know?”

“Not when he gets smashed by Frankie,” another one puts in.

Cam just laughs. “We’ll see. I heard he’s still as good.”

“Doubt it,” the first guy retorts meanly, “Never was that good anyway.”

 “And yet you still remember him?” Harry could say he didn’t think about it, but he’d have said it even if he did. No one gets away with insulting Zayn like that, not if he can help it.

He keeps his head more or less down as he feels the guys’ gaze turn to him. “Who’re you?”

“Friend of Malik’s,” Cameron inputs.

The first guy gives him a long, assessing gaze, almost lascivious. It’s nothing compared to how Harry’s been looked at before, by photographers and judges and models and everyone in between, and so he doesn’t move, lets the guy look his fill if he wants. He won’t see anything Harry doesn’t want him to. “Bet he is. Pretty boy always did know how to pick ‘em.”

“Ryan,” Cameron rumbles out. It’s a pretty clear warning, and even if Ryan doesn’t back away, he does look away from Harry.

“I’ve got some money to go put on Frankie,” he says coolly. “We’ll see how your boy does.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just spins on his heel and walks away.

Cameron lets out a long breath once he’s gone. “You okay?”

“Pretty boy?” Harry asks. That wasn’t scary. Posturing’s part of the game, he gets that. It’s not that different from parties he’s gone to. “The bouncer called him that too. Is he that irresistible?” Harry’s pretty sure the answer’s yes, really.

Cameron shakes his head. “It’s not always a compliment.”

“Calling him pretty?”

Cameron gives him a hard look, like his teachers would give him when he gave a glib answer to something that required more thought. “He was young, he was small, and he was even prettier then. Not handsome, pretty.” He’s still giving Harry that look, like he’s expecting him to make connections. “And the boys posture, you know? Being a man, a real man, it matters here. And if I kept them away, it’d only have been worse.”

It takes Harry a second, but then he gets it. “Oh!” Then the full implications hit him, and he swallows. It’s an image he won’t get rid of quickly, a younger Zayn, somehow even prettier, more delicate, with some big burly fighter wrapped around him, their tattoos melding… “But—he didn’t? Here?”

“Not that I knew of.” Cameron shrugs. “Didn’t much matter to most people, but some of the boys decided he might. I always thought he might have had too much of it, that was why he left.”

Harry purses his lips. It could be. He knows well enough how hard it is to be anything but straight somewhere that hasn’t really accepted that yet. But he thinks of how Zayn had said that backing away had never helped, how bullying didn’t matter, and he doesn’t think so. “Do you—”

“Here we go,” Cameron interrupts him, and leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, as the ring girl announces the next fight.

Frankie-Boy comes out first. He’s smaller than some of the others, though bigger than Zayn—because of weight classes, Cameron explains in a whisper—with buzzed red hair, a square jaw, and a nose that’s been broken more than once. Harry has a second to be worried about Zayn—there had been blood on the guys before him, what if—but then Zayn’s name is called, and he comes out, and Harry forgets about worry.

He’s ditched the sweatpants and hoodie somewhere, and now he’s just in tight knee-length shorts, tight enough there’s a bulge Harry very quickly drags his gaze away from. It doesn’t particularly help. His body’s all muscle, broad shoulders and narrow waist and hips, decorated all over by ink Harry can’t really make out at this distance, except for a pair of lips right on his sternum.

Harry shifts in his chair, leaning forward in an instinctive sort of pull to be closer. He knew Zayn had to be muscular under his t-shirts and jeans, because he was a bodyguard, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. Just knowing how he could hold Harry up—how he could catch him—how he could hold Harry down, or wrap him in strong arms and keep everything away.

Frankie is preening, holding up his hands so the crowd cheers, but Zayn’s almost preternaturally still, in his corner. His taped hands hang loosely at his sides, and his head is bowed. Harry thinks his eyes might even be closed.

“Fighters, take your marks!” The announcer bellows, as the ring girl gets out of the way. Zayn’s head comes up, and Harry can’t read his expression but it isn’t the sneer Frankie has, to be sure. “And—” The bell rings.

Harry’s expecting movement, but though both Zayn and Frankie come to the middle, their fists raised over their chests, nothing else happens for a long second. It looks like Frankie’s saying something, maybe taunting, but it’s too quiet to hear, so to Harry it just looks like they’re circling each other slowly. Harry’s never seen Zayn look at anyone else with that piercing, x-ray stare he has. He doesn’t like it that he’s turning it on someone else, even though he knows that’s stupid. But still.

Frankie’s the first to attack, some punches Zayn dodges easily enough Harry wonders if Frankie even expected them to connect. He tries again, and again, and Zayn just keeps dodging, except for once where he blocks with his forearm. Frankie looks like he’s getting frustrated, and so is the crowd. They’re not quite booing, but Harry knows crowds, and they’re getting restless. If he were on stage, he’d make a joke, do something silly or ridiculous or sexual to get them interested again, but he has a feeling none of that is what’s going to happen. Especially as there are a few yells for Frankie to “Show him what a real man fights like!”

“Oh, fuck off!” comes another yell, and a wave of laughter. Frankie attacks with the laughter, like it’s pushing him on, pressing Zayn back and back until he’s almost at the ropes. What if he loses? Harry hadn’t really considered that before, but he could, he could lose and Harry wouldn’t mind losing the money but what if there’s some sort of penalty?

One of Frankie’s fists connects, on Zayn’s middle, and he winces as breath huffs out of him. Harry winces with him, wrapping an arm around his middle. Frankie presses his advantage, coming in with another lumbering punch that would push Zayn into the corner or knock him out completely—then suddenly Zayn’s moving.

He’s under Frankie’s arm and before Frankie really has a chance to turn Zayn’s on him, fists and feet and Frankie’s the one cornered. Harry can’t follow it, not really, but even he can tell that for all Frankie’s landing some punches too, glancing off Zayn’s cheek and on his arm and his thigh, Zayn’s clearly dominating. There’s a flash of red that Harry thinks is blood and he can see the sweat on Zayn’s back and it’s horrible, really, Harry knows it is. But it’s horribly exciting too, and Zayn’s gorgeous like this, each movement deliberate and strategic, like he can’t hear the cheers of the audience, Harry’s voice mixed in.

Frankie tries to rally, driving Zayn back by getting in close and using his size—but then Zayn does something with his legs, and Frankie’s on the matt, Zayn over him. Then it’s really just a blur of ink and skin and sweat, and Harry thinks he sees Zayn’s lips moving, or maybe he’s smiling, or maybe both—then Frankie’s hand slams onto the matt, and by the way Cameron leaps to his feet cheering Harry guesses Zayn’s won.

Harry cheers too, as Zayn gets up. His whole chest is glistening with sweat, and his hair’s come a little loose, and Harry thinks very sternly to himself about anything unsexy he can to ignore the dream of licking all that sweat off of him, of how he probably smells musky and manly right now.

Zayn swings his hand up with the ref declaring victory to a chorus of cheers and boos. He’s grinning like Harry’s never seen him before, something fierce and predatory in it, something elated. It’s probably what he looks like after a win, or maybe it’s adrenaline—but Harry can’t help but wonder if that’s what he’d look like with Harry pinned to a bed underneath him.

“Come on,” Cameron urges. Harry shakes his head to knock that thought out, then follows him over to the corner where Zayn’s ducking under the ropes and hopping back down to the floor.

“Great show!” Cameron yells, slapping Zayn on the back. “Knew you’d pull it out.”

“Almost didn’t,” Zayn admits. He runs a hand back over his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I got lucky he overextended.”

“You were getting your sea legs back,” Cameron argues. “You’d find an opening. You always do. He’s sneaky,” he explains, turning to Harry. “One of the smartest fighters I’ve seen. Makes up for his weediness.”

“Not like there’s a lot of competition,” Zayn retorts, his smile fading as he too turns to look at Harry. Harry swallows down the urge to fidget, to duck his head and play with his hair. He’s not some groupie, even if he has a sudden sympathy for then. “So? What did you think?”

“You were amazing!” There are more words for it, Harry thinks, but none he should probably say. “It was sick.” Zayn snorts, but his lips curl into a small smile, so Harry takes it as a win. “And won me a bunch of money.”

“You let him bet?” Zayn demands of Cameron.

“I wanted to bet,” Harry inserts. “I wanted to bet on you.”

“You’ve never seen me fight. I could have been bad.”

Harry shakes his head, meets Zayn’s dark-eyed stare. “No. You couldn’t.”

Zayn looks at him for a long second more, like it means more than Harry said, but then his gaze moves quickly away, over the room. “I’m going to change, then we’re going.”

“You mean you don’t want to talk to people?” Harry asks. “Get a celebratory drink? See how much money you made?”

“No.” It’s the closest to anger Harry’s ever seen in Zayn, a quick sharp word. “No, we’re going. We’ve already pressed our luck being here.”

“What if I wanted to stay?” Harry retorts. Zayn may be—well, Zayn—but he’s not going to just be ordered around. So he flutters his eyelashes, gives his best for-show flirty smile. “What if I want to hang off the conquering hero’s arm? I’m great arm candy, promise.”

Zayn sighs. “Do you?”

He sounds tired, like Harry feels after tour, right before he crashes. Like Harry’s mum would sometimes sound after a long week at work. Like Niall sounded when he was working frantically to get Directions off the ground and there was a disaster every other hour.

“No,” Harry admits. He doesn’t want Zayn to sound tired like that. “No, we can go.”

“You’re the boss. If you want to stay, we can stay.” Zayn’s eyes sweep over the room. “There are plenty of people here who’d have no idea who you are, who you could talk to. Or who won’t say anything.”

“No, we’ll go,” Harry announces. He does know he shouldn’t really be here. And Zayn looks like he needs to sleep. “You get changed, I’ll get my money.”

Zayn nods, and slips away. Cameron watches him go, his lips pursing.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks. Cameron shrugs.

“I haven’t seen him in years. But he seems different.”

“How?”

Another shrug. “Let’s cash you out, Styles.”

Harry huffs out a frustrated breath, but he doesn’t know how to push Cameron, and he’s also not sure he wants to know the answer. So instead he follows Cameron back to the bookie’s table and collects his winnings, then follows Cameron towards the door, where Zayn’s leaning against a wall, back in his hoodie and sweats. You could almost mistake him for just some uni student wandering around in those, not even realize what lay beneath. There’s something hot in that too. That so much of Zayn is a secret. 

“Called a cab,” Zayn says, as they walk up. “Should be here soon.”

“I’ll walk you outside.” Cameron ducks outside with them, nodding to the bouncer. The bouncer eyes Harry again, like he thinks he might know who he is—but Harry doesn’t think it’s malicious, so he gives him a wide smile and a bit of a salute before he lets Zayn usher him out, his hand on the small of Harry’s back.

They don’t talk much as they wait. Harry would, but Zayn’s on high alert, glancing around constantly like he’s expecting someone to jump them at any second—which, to be fair, Harry thinks is pretty likely given the neighborhood. And Cameron’s watching Zayn like he’s trying to see something in him under the skin. It makes something itch in Harry, makes him want to grab Cameron and make him look away, or maybe to go over and wrap himself around Zayn so Cameron will have to go through Harry first.

Instead, he waits quietly until the cab pulls up, then grins at Cameron to distract him. “Thanks for showing me around. And getting Zayn here.”

Cameron smiles back, easily. Harry really needs to stop being irrationally jealous over a bloke he isn’t even really anything with. “Think that was up to you. He never could resist a—”

“Thanks for taking care of this one,” Zayn interrupts. Harry nearly jumps, at the sudden sound of his voice and the hand that lands on his shoulder. But not enough that he’s not curious about the next word.

“A what?” A begging child? The lure of a fight? A pretty boy? Harry would pay plenty of money to know.

“It was nice to see you,” he goes on, like he hadn’t heard Harry. Harry sticks out his lower lip, and elbows Zayn. It doesn’t seem to have any effect. “Really nice.”

“Same.” Cameron holds out his hand in Harry’s direction. He takes it, shakes it enthusiastically. “Take care of him, okay?”

“Yes sir!” Harry salutes. It’s sort of redundant, because Zayn takes care of him, not the other way around, but he’ll do anything he can.

“And you.” He lets go of Harry, and instead of shaking Zayn’s hand just pulls him into a hug. Zayn goes easily, his hand sliding away from Harry to wrap around Cameron’s shoulders. Harry looks away. He’s not going to be jealous. It’s stupid to be jealous. Obviously Zayn and him don’t hug, he’s Zayn’s boss, it’d be weird. Obviously. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Zayn draws back. “I’m not going to fight again.”

Cameron’s hand curls tightly around his tricep. “You don’t have to fight to visit a friend.”

Zayn smiles softly. Harry’s heart gives an extra thump. It’s weirdly incongruous, knowing like Harry does about the blood and bruises on Zayn’s skin beneath the hoodie, but that only makes it better. “I will.”

He releases Cameron, steps back, and opens the cab door so Harry can get in. It takes him a while to follow after, long enough that Harry asks, as he closes the door behind him and gives the cabbie the address of the hotel, “What were you doing? Giving him a kiss good-bye?”

Zayn doesn’t rise to the bait. “No. I was asking him to keep an ear out, about your threats.”

“Oh.” That’s not what Harry was expecting. He lets his head drop, so he can look at his hands in his lap.

“I doubt he’ll turn anything up. But he’s got connections, and it can’t hurt.” Zayn pauses, then something in his voice softens. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“It’s okay.” Harry looks up, grins. He saw what Zayn could do today, he’ll be fine. And it probably won’t be anything anyway. And anyway, there are more important things. “Why won’t you fight again? You’re good. And you liked it.”

Zayn shrugs. Of course. “That’s why.”

“So you stopped because you liked it?” Harry laughs. “Logical.”

“We can’t all win X-Factor.” Zayn shrugs again, but he turns away, to look out the window. “I had different priorities.”

“Like what?” He should probably stop pressing, Harry knows; should probably let Zayn be. But that’s not how Harry’s ever worked. He wants to know all of Zayn, wants to solve the mystery that is him, the one even Cameron doesn’t know. Maybe one his girlfriend doesn’t know either.

“Like keeping famous musicians safe,” Zayn retorts, chuckling. It’s a deflection, and Harry knows it, but Zayn’s laughing with him and in his hoodie he looks soft and hard all at once, and Harry’s not going to give that up by asking more.

\---

“So are you going to tell me where you were last night?” Paul asks, as Harry sits in the makeup chair and lets Lou fuss over him. It’s a pretty good place to be; he can’t really move his face so Paul won’t be able to read anything on it.

“Out,” Harry says. It’s better than lying, he’s found from long experience with interviewers. “I took Zayn! I was safe.”

“Harry,” Paul sighs. Harry meets Lou’s gaze in the mirror and rolls his eyes. Behind her, Zayn’s on his phone, his back turned to Harry. It’s a nice view. “Zayn’s just one person. I know he told you about the threats, you need to be careful.”

“I’m fine,” Harry assures him. Well, unless you count a night haunted by dreams of Zayn saving him from a dragon dressed in nothing but a loincloth. He’d never been more thankful that Zayn tended not to emerge from his room until they had to leave, because it had taken a long wank and a cold shower to recover from that.

“But you need—” Paul cuts off as there’s a shout for him. He looks over at them, and apparently it’s enough for him to have to deal with, because he just gives Harry a pointed glare, then leaves.

Lou at least waits until he’s out of earshot before she leans closer. “So, where were you?”  

“Out!” Harry retorts, but he knows he’s grinning.

“That code for sex?”

“Noooo,” Harry draws the word out, until she slaps him on the shoulder.

“Really?”

“No,” he admits. “I really did just go out. And he came because he’s my bodyguard.”

“Letting us down, Styles,” she teases, and pulls his hair back until he yelps. “Want to see the picture of Lux I got?”

“Yes please!” Harry agrees, and goes through her phone until finally she dismisses him.

He probably should go over to Caroline, but he’s got a few minutes, so instead he wanders over to the snack table to grab two cups of tea. It’s got to be boring for Zayn back here, just hanging around and watching Harry; the least he could do was bring him tea. And conversation.

Zayn doesn’t notice him coming up behind him, which Harry would like to think is because he’s that sneaky but really is probably just because he’s still on the phone.

“No, mum, it’s a bonus,” he’s saying. He sounds exhausted, even though he went to bed as soon as he checked Harry’s room last night. “That’s all. Just—take it, okay? Please?” He pauses, then, “No, you’ve done enough, it’s for you.” Harry stops a few feet away. If he didn’t have two cups, he’d tap him on the shoulder, but as it is, he doesn’t have the hand free. He doesn’t want to just stand here and eavesdrop, but he’s not sure what else to do, really. “I know you’re happy to, that’s not the point. I want to give you something, yeah? Please?” Zayn runs a hand back over his hair, ends up tugging on his ear. He’s probably biting on his lip too. It’s a bit unfair, that Harry can’t see it. Or maybe it’s a good thing. He does have to go sing in an hour. “I’m sending it either way. I’ll send it to dad if I have to.” A snort. “Fine, to Saf. She’ll take it. No, I don’t need it.”

This is starting to feel a little awkward, like Harry’s spying. He wants this—wants to know what Zayn’s talking about, why he’s talking to his mum about a bonus he certainly didn’t give him. Which is probably his winnings from last night. That of course he’s insisting his mother take. Harry actually does need to stop listening, because if he does for much longer he’ll just throw himself at Zayn and he can’t do that.

So instead, he channels all his yoga training, transfers his weight onto one legs, and reaches out with the other to poke at Zayn’s thigh. Zayn jolts a little, spins, and almost knocks Harry off balance, but he manages to stay upright and not spill anything, just gestures questioningly with the tea.

Zayn nods thankfully. “No, mum, I’ve got to go. I’m sending it to you. Bye!” He hangs up quickly, presumably before she can argue. “Thanks,” he says to Harry, and accepts the cup Harry hands to him. Harry watches as he wraps his hands around the cup, as his eyes half-closed as he breathes in the scent, his eyelashes fanning over his cheeks.

“What was that?” Harry asks. Zayn blinks slowly.

“What?”

“Arguing with your mum?”

Zayn gave one of his small smiles. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“Well, if you weren’t so mysterious, I wouldn’t have to.” Harry takes a sip of his own tea. It’s something to do with his hands. He usually knows what to do with his hands, this is weird. “But yes. I’m curious.”

“I can tell.”

“It makes me charming,” Harry informs him.

“Says who?”

“What, you don’t think I’m charming?” Harry gives him his best interview smile, the one that makes everyone melt. “That hurts, Zayn.”

Zayn smiled again, around his tea. “I think you think you’re charming.”

“That’s not an answer!” Harry protests. From the other side of the green room, Caroline gives him a ‘come here!’ gesture, he nods and heads over, Zayn following. “And I don’t think I’m charming, I know it.”

“That’s not better,” Zayn teases back, his eyes curving into a smile, and Harry’s a little too distracted by that to notice the wire on the floor in front of him. He trips, flails, his tea sloshing over his hand as he tries to catch his balance—then there’re hands on his hips, steadying him. Harry takes a second to stare at confusion at the ground, because he was almost certain he’d fall—then quick as they were there the hands are gone, and Zayn’s swearing and Harry turns around to see a stain spreading over the front of Zayn’s t-shirt.

“Shit!” Harry mutters. He’d been doing so well, and now Zayn must think he’s such an idiot, which he is, “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Zayn gives his shirt a rueful look. “It’s just water, right?”

“No, I am such a klutz, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Zayn repeats. “It’s just a t-shirt.”

“Yeah, but it’s my fault. And fuck, it’s boiling too, isn’t it too hot?” Harry demands. This is really the best way to get in with Zayn, to fall on him and spill his tea everywhere. Zayn must really think he’s mature now. “Come on, you need a new shirt.”

“I have a jacket—”

“You need a new shirt,” Harry insists. He grabs at Zayn’s arm, drags him over to wear Caroline’s waiting. “Caroline, do you have a shirt for him?”

“I’m not wearing any of your shirts,” Zayn warns. Harry rolls his eyes.

“I look good in my shirts.” Zayn raises his eyebrows at him. “Fine, Caroline, is there anything for Zayn?”

Her eyes light up. “Is it my birthday, Harry?”

“No,” Zayn warns, trying for stern, which doesn’t work very well when she’s got her hands on Zayn’s shirt and is pulling it off, “I’m not wearing anything expensive—shit!” he swears, as she does…something. “Hands off, woman!”

“Oh, stop it. I’m a professional.”

He wrinkles his nose at her, and she grins back, before tugging the shirt the rest of the way off. “I have just the thing, I’ll be right there.”

“Nothing designer!” Zayn calls after her, as she turns to the wardrobe. “God, if this is what your life is like, I’m glad I don’t have it,” he tells Harry. Harry was trying very hard not to look at him shirtless, for everyone’s peace, but if he’s talking to him than Harry has to. It’s only polite. “I feel like a piece of meat.”

“Wait until you get to photoshoots.” Harry really has to look at him now. Especially now that he’s thinking of photoshoots, of how good Zayn might look. He looks like he could be a model now, with his jeans slung low over narrow hips, those broad shoulders and the ink down his sides. Harry tries to focus on his face, he does, but then— “Oh, are those from last night?”

His hands reach out to trace over the bruises blooming dark on Zayn’s ribs, lightly as he can so he doesn’t hurt.

 “Yeah.”

Harry’s gotten enough bruises in his day to know these ones must hurt, but Zayn doesn’t wince as he drags his fingers over them. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Zayn hasn’t been this monosyllabic with him in weeks, so Harry raises his head to look at him—and only then notices just how close he is, how his hand is on Zayn’s bare stomach and their mouths are close enough they could share air.

“You are,” Harry agrees vaguely, his gaze caught on Zayn’s lips, on how Zayn’s tongue emerges to wet them.

Then his mind catches up to him. “I mean, yeah, you’re fine, clearly, they’re just bruises,” he babbles, moving back. He’s blushing. He hasn’t blushed in years, but he is, and he’s babbling and he still doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that they’re not on Zayn’s skin anymore. “I get bruises all the time, I’m so clumsy, and I’ve got a shit pain tolerance, you’re probably much better than me.” Zayn’s just looking at him, still, not saying anything. He could say something. It would make it much less awkward. Unless it’s not awkward and Harry only thinks it is. But Zayn was there too, with Harry’s hands on him, and he hadn’t moved away, and Harry’s not sure what that means. What it means that Zayn’s looking at him so intently, like he can’t see anything else. Harry drums his fingers over his thighs, then runs them through his hair. “Badass fighter, you probably get bruised all the time—not that I think you get into fights, you probably don’t—but I bet bruises don’t phase you—I mean—”

“Here it is,” Caroline announces, bustling back. Thank god. It means at least Zayn has to look away from Harry, at the shirt she’s carrying. And it means that Harry has an excuse to look away, to take a few deep breaths to compose himself. He’s Harry Styles. He’s not a fifteen year old with a crush. “Knew I had it.”

Zayn eyes the black and grey button down. “How much does it cost?”

“And here’s something to go under it,” she adds, ignoring him, holding out a black vest. “Now put them on, let me see how you look.”

“I’m not your doll,” Zayn objects, but he pulls on the tank top. It’s probably good for Harry’s concentration, but it means all that lovely skin and muscle and ink are hidden, those bruises that make Harry think of how he looked in the ring, fierce and deliberate and predatory.

“Shush,” Caroline tells him absently, tugging on the hem of the button down when he pulls it on. She gives him a long look, then nods to herself, and rolls up his sleeves to his forearm, so the tattoos show through. “There. Better. Right, Harry?”

Harry swallows. “He’s pretty all the time, come on Caroline.”

“Well of course.” She ignores Zayn’s snort. “Now, you. Harry, come here, let’s get you into wardrobe. If you promise not to spill things on it?”

“I only spill things on Zayn.”

“I feel so special,” Zayn drawls, and Harry has a chance to smirk at him before he’s getting led away.

\---

_Party looks sick, mate!_ Harry sends to Nick, in response to the pictures he’d sent of the club he’d been too last night. The pictures are blurry in all the right ways, and it does look like a lot of fun. Especially as Harry’d spent last night in a bus, heading to the next venue. He’d been alone in the bus, too; Zayn had gone off somewhere for the night, was meeting them this morning according to Paul. It’s totally within his rights, Harry knows, especially as he’s sort of on the clock 24/7, but still, the bus had been empty, with just Harry. He’d tried to call Nick, but he’d been at the party, and Niall was always working late for Directions, and he wasn’t about to wake up his mum. He’d texted everyone else he could think of, had chatted with a few, but it didn’t really make the bus any louder, so he’d crashed early and when he woke up at least the sun was out, and Nick was up to do his show so he could chat with him. _Get me Ariana Grande’s phone number?_

_Lolol like I’d dare_.

Harry furrows his brow at his phone. He’s not entirely sure what that means. And there’s no one else here to ask. _???_

_Wouldn’t want to risk her life,_ Nick replies. Harry’s pretty sure he’s laughing, but he’s also not really explaining things.

_???!???!!!!_ he texts back.

_All the people busy shipping you with your bodyguard might attack,_ Nick texts, and oh. That makes more sense. Harry tries not to look at things like that, at his presence on the internet, but he can’t really say he’s surprised fans have started, given they ship him with people he’s never even met. Hell, he ships himself with Zayn. In another world. Where Zayn is not off limits. And wants him back.

_There can’t be that many_ , is all he replies with. Giving Nick too much can sometimes be dangerous.

_Oh there are. I think he’s beaten me out for older man to mistakenly ship you with_.

Harry’s lips press together. Mistakenly. It is mistakenly. Because he thinks Harry’s a silly little boy he needs to take care of. And also, his boss. _Have they found him yet?_

_Not that I can tell. You warned him yet?_

Harry shakes his head instinctively, before typing back _no_. He’s not sure if Zayn knows exactly how this sort of internet culture works, but he does know that this is one thing he can protect Zayn from. Nick’s used to being all over the Internet, to people accusing him of sleeping with people and sometimes spewing hate at him over social media. Harry’s pretty sure Zayn isn’t. He’s private, even if sometimes he’s shit at actually being private. Or no, it’s not that—it’s just that he’s so obvious he’s being private it makes people (or at least, Harry) wildly curious about what he’s holding back. He clearly never learned that the best way to actually be private is to give people just enough.

_You know that’ll backfire eventually_.

_Doesn’t have to_ , Harry replies, and wishes there was someway more than a period to indicate his firmness. He can keep Zayn safe too, in his way. Let him keep his mysteries. From everyone but Harry, preferably. _So did you meet anyone cool at the party?_

It distracts Nick, so they spend the time until the bus finally pulls to a stop chatting about Nick’s show.

There’s screaming when the bus pulls into the entrance of the arena, fans lined up already to see the show or Harry. If there were windows, Harry would stick his head out to wave, but as he can’t he just waits as patiently as he can until the screaming’s dulled behind walls and the bus finally pulls to a stop. It’s not even really been that long a drive, and Harry was asleep for a lot of it, but it felt endless, so Harry shoves a beanie and a sweatshirt on before he jumps out of the bus.

The air is fresh and heavy, out of the air conditioning, and Harry breathes in deep just to savor it. They’re early enough he might be able to get in some yoga before sound check, or at the very least some laps outside, get some sun. It’s summer, it’s about time he gets some sort of tan. They aren’t going to South America for another few months, but still.

“Feeding your chlorophyll?” Harry opens his eyes. Zayn’s leaning against the other bus, eyes fixed on him as everyone else bustles around them. He’s got a bit of a smile on, and he looks younger, though that might be because he’s just in a t-shirt and jeans that he still manages to make a fashion statement.

Harry grins. “Zayn!” He hugs him before he thinks better of it, pulling him close. He smells like cigarettes and sweat and the cologne he always wears, and his arms are strong and steady around Harry’s back.

“It’s not even been a full day,” Zayn drawls. Which, right. It hasn’t been. It’s not like there’s a good reason for Harry to have hugged him, except as an excuse to get close to him like this.

“Yeah, but it felt like longer. I’ve been pining,” Harry informs him, dimpling. “Don’t know what to do without you there to catch me.”

“Trip over a lot of things on the bus while you were asleep?”

“Enough,” Harry admits cheerfully. “Where’d you go, anyway?” He lets go a little, so he can lean against the bus next to Zayn. They’re close enough their arms are brushing. It makes Harry fidgety, so he reaches up to pull off his beanie before he remembers his hair’s a mess under it and he probably shouldn’t do that.

Zayn shrugs. “Home.”

“Oh, right! You’re from around here. Have a good visit?”

“Yeah.” Zayn smiles, soft and sweet, like Harry’s only really seen when he’s talking about home. “Quick, but nice.”

“Always the way.” Harry nods sagely. Even if he doesn’t really go home much, anymore; he’d rather have Gemma and his mum out to L.A. or something. Holmes Chapel just doesn’t feel like home, hasn’t for ages, but then again neither does the London flat he sleeps in when he’s in London and doesn’t have anywhere else to crash, or even his L.A. house, that he had done up just to his taste but is never in, and is too big for just him anyway. But he can imagine what it’d be like, if you were like Zayn and softened every time you talked about home.

“Yeah.” Zayn bites at his lip. Can he make it a rule that Zayn stop doing that? Harry wonders, because he can’t look away whenever he does, and it’s starting to be a problem. Or is already a problem, more like, because Harry can imagine replacing Zayn’s teeth with his, or maybe what Zayn’s teeth would feel like on his lips, his skin, marking him up.

“I’m going to go for a run,” he announces. He needs to get away. Needs to do something. “Coming?”

“Nah, I already worked out today.” Harry very maturely doesn’t pout. He likes it when they run together, their steps pounding in synch, or how sometimes either Harry gets ahead of Zayn and he can pretend he’s not imagining how Zayn’s watching his ass as he runs or Zayn gets ahead of him and he can pretend he’s not ogling Zayn’s ass and back and legs and everything. “Get gone. I’ll let you know when you’re needed.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Zayn. He doesn’t know quite what it is, if it’s a physical tell or if he’s making it up or what, but something seems off about Zayn. His teeth are digging into his lips harder than usual, maybe. Or it’s just in the look in his eyes, the way his smile doesn’t reach all the way in. “Are you okay, Zayn?”

Zayn shrugs. “Fine.” When Harry hesitates, he shakes his head. “Just sad about leaving home. Go take your run.”

“Okay…” Harry trails off, but it doesn’t look like Zayn’s going to give him anymore, so he ducks back into the bus to change.

\---

The show that night is wild—Harry’s not exactly sure why, because it’s not like there’s not going to be another night here, and he comes here every time he tours—but sometimes it happens like this, a particularly loud and excited crowd. It makes Harry buzz with it, makes him ham it up on stage, dancing with the band and blowing kisses to the crowd and making everything a little sexier, just because he can, because the crowd screams until it’s deafening when he thrusts his hips.

He runs off stage, high on the adrenaline, at the end of the show. The band’s breaking down and Caroline’s trying to get him out of wardrobe but Zayn’s talking to one of the other security guys and Harry wants him to look at Harry, to always be looking at Harry.

“Zayn!” he yells, and jumps on his back. Zayn stumbles, but he catches Harry, lets him grab around his neck and pull himself up so Zayn’s got his legs on Harry’s thighs and Harry’s hanging piggy-back off his back.

“Hi, Harry,” Zayn replies. Harry’s pretty sure he’s rolling his eyes at the other security guy, but he’s also carrying Harry, so Harry figures it’s a win.

“Did you see me?” Harry asks. Zayn’s hair is sort of in his face, so he blows to get it away, and Zayn shivers a little. It’s gratifying, at least. Even if Harry is very nobly resisting the temptation to nibble on Zayn’s ear, right there and tempting.

“What, you mean that thing with fireworks?” Zayn drawls. “No, I think I missed it.” Harry laughs, and pouts at the other security guy, who is clearly trying very hard not to smile.

“He’s being mean to me. He’s always so mean to me. Maybe you should be my bodyguard instead.”

“I wish you the joy of him,” Zayn retorts. But he keeps holding tight to Harry, like he’s never going to put him down, like he can hold him here and close forever.

“See? Mean.” Harry can’t really resist, so he bites loosely at Zayn’s shoulder. It’s covered by shirt, so it’s basically platonic. He’s bitten Nick like this before. Admittedly, he’s never wanted to follow it up by exploring Nick’s neck and jaw, see how his scruff feels against Harry’s cheeks, but still. Platonic enough. “You’re awful. I should run away.”

“Run away from me?”

Harry lasts all of a second before he breaks, hugs Zayn closer once, then hops off of him. “Don’t worry, I’d never run away from you,” he assures Zayn.  “Except I have to go change now.” Because he’s a good person, he doesn’t suggest Zayn come watch him do that. “Then the line, then hotel?”

Zayn’s face does a miniscule twisting thing. “Actually, we were talking. It’s crazy out there, worse than usual—how’d you feel about just going out the back?”

“No, if it’s crazy I really should be out there.” Out there, with all the people who love him, who want him, who have been waiting so long just to touch him or have him make eye contact. “I’ll be back in a second!”

It’s more than a second, but Harry strips, ducks into the shower so he’s not totally disgusting—he doesn’t know why Zayn didn’t throw him off immediately—then changes back into street clothes, or at least sort of street clothes. He still goes with tight jeans and a shirt open most of the way, because he knows the fans love those, and also it’s hot and he’s not feeling more clothes.

Zayn’s deep in conversation with Paul when Harry finds him again. They look very serious, Zayn still with that tenseness he’s been carrying all day, and Harry just wants that to go away, for Zayn to be as happy as he is in this moment, if he only knew how to make him feel that. If he only knew how to make Zayn look at him like he’d made Zayn’s whole life.  

“I’m ready!” he announces, bouncing up to them. “We good to go?”

“Yeah.” Paul glances at his clipboard, then at Zayn. “Quickly, though. There’s a car waiting. No more than five minutes.”

“Okay,” Harry gives his most earnest nod. “Come on, Zayn.”

Zayn lets himself be tugged away, but he still hesitates a little. “Are you sure you don’t want to go out back?”

“Yes. It’s not that bad, I’m sure. And you’ll keep me safe, right?” Harry confirms, throwing his arms around Zayn’s shoulders and batting his eyelashes. Zayn’s lips twitch. “My hero.”

“Your bodyguard,” Zayn corrects, and disentangles himself. It’s a bit of a blow, that reminder, that Zayn’s here because he was hired to be, that even if it does feel like he sees deeper into Harry than anyone else it’s only because he needs to. Or maybe he wants to too—Harry thinks he does, thinks Zayn’s fond of him at least, even if it’s just as a little brother—but really, he’s not Harry’s friend.

Not even that reminder, though, can counter the way the screaming starts when Harry walks outside. So many people, screaming his name, and Harry grins and turns at random to the first girl. He signs and grins and listens to stories and people sobbing praise, and it’s filling him up too, with energy just like on the stage, that he might not have a home but he has this, all these people loving him.

There’s a hand on his arm, and he figures it’s Zayn so he just murmurs an assent—but then it’s tugging and he spins and there’s someone there too, pushing in. There are cameras flashing, and how’d they get so close?

“We need to go,” Zayn’s voice is in his ear, and he’s certain it’s Zayn’s hand on his back, but he doesn’t know where the hand on his chest is coming from. He stumbles back, into Zayn, or he hopes it’s Zayn—“Come on.” Zayn’s voice is even, and Harry nods and lets Zayn guide him. There are people everywhere, and they’re all scrambling to get closer and then something flies through the air and Harry can’t see where it went but Zayn’s there, solid next to him with his steady hand and people are pressing in—and he’s out of the crowd and getting shoved into a car.

“Go,” Zayn snaps at the driver, who does, somehow getting them out of the arena without running anyone over, Harry thinks. He hopes. He’s not sure. It hasn’t been that crazy in ages, and he’s still breathing hard. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Harry pats at his arm, his chest, just to make sure. His shirt hasn’t even torn, which is a plus. He likes this shirt. “That was exciting!”

“Yeah.” Zayn tips his head back, takes a deep breath that makes his chest rise and fall. Okay, so that wasn’t the best way to end a day, but it’s not the first time Harry’s been mobbed and he hopes it won’t be the last. Or, doesn’t hope that, but he hopes that his popularity stays high enough people want to mob him. He checks his pocket for his phone and wallet, and they’re there, so it was fine.

He assures Paul of that when they get to the hotel, over and over as they head up to his hotel room. Their bags are already in the suite, and Harry tells Paul one last, stern, “I’m fine,” before he shuts the door.

Zayn’s still looking at him, from where he’s leaning against the wall. He leans a lot. He should probably stop, it’s a bit horribly attractive. But now he’s just giving Harry one of his x-ray looks, and Harry rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you going to ask me if I’m okay too?” he demands.

“Not if you say you are.” Zayn shrugs, stands up.

“I am! Need me to stand on my head to show you?” Harry gives the floor a glance. “I could. I’ve got excellent balance.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“I’ve done yoga for years!” Harry insists, “I—” In the process of waving his hands to show just how many years he’s been doing yoga, he manages to set himself off balances, takes a step, trips over nothing, and stumbles, falling conveniently enough right into Zayn, so Harry manages to catch himself with a hand on Zayn’s waist and one sort of on his head.

“Good balance?” Zayn drawls.

“Great balance,” Harry repeats, patting Zayn’s head to emphasize. It feels weird. Different. Wetter than his hair usually is. And when Harry pulls his hand away, it’s wet too, and red, and Harry stumbles away from him, staring at his hand.

“Zayn?” He stares at his hand, then at Zayn’s hair, where he thinks he can see it’s a darker black. “Zayn! Are you bleeding?” He’s bleeding, fuck, it must have happened in the mob—Harry hadn’t seen what happened there, it could have been anything—what if the killer had tried to attack and he had hit Zayn and now he was bleeding because Harry hadn’t thought about the crowds— _bleeding_ , Zayn’s blood was on Harry’s hands—

“It’s fine, it’s just a scratch.” Harry doesn’t hear him, or it doesn’t process, he just pushes close to run his hands through Zayn’s hair, feeling for where the wound actually is. He finds it quickly, can feel the skin and the blood. There’s so much blood. “Harry—”

“Sit down,” Harry orders. He knows that. Sit down, and what do you do with cuts. He’s not totally inept with first aid, given his predilection for getting hurt, he knows this. He can keep his head. Bleeding means cold, to stop the bleeding. He can do that.

He shoves Zayn onto the couch, then goes to the mini-fridge. There’s ice there, thankfully, and Harry runs to the bathroom to grab a washcloth to wrap the ice in, then goes back to Zayn. He’s sat on the couch, his eyes a little wide as he tracks Harry’s movements, but he doesn’t say anything when Harry kneels next to him, holding the icepack to his head.

“What happened?” Harry demands. He puts a hand under Zayn’s chin so he can turn Zayn’s head a bit, so he can get a better angle to press against his head. “It wasn’t—”

“No,” Zayn immediately interrupts, like he knows what Harry was thinking. “No, it was a camera, I think, hit me in the head by accident. It’s not as bad as it looks, head wounds just bleed a lot.”

“Shut up.” Zayn’s blood is on his hands. Zayn’s blood is on his hands, even if it wasn’t the person trying to kill him, it was still someone trying to get to Harry. And Zayn had gotten hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Something about Zayn’s voice, the honest curiosity in it, makes Harry have to look at him, not his hair or anything else that will distract him from the guilt. He looks down—and Harry’s breath catches for reasons that have nothing to do with guilt. He’d been too busy, too worried, to notice, but he’s basically in Zayn’s lap he’s so close, and his hands are twined in Zayn’s hair, pulling it out of his ponytail, and Zayn’s face is so close, so that if Harry just bent down the tiniest bit, if he tilted Zayn’s head, their lips would meet. God, he could, just kiss him to give comfort, to apologize, to feel his lips against Harry’s—“Why?”

Harry doesn’t move a muscle. He’s not sure he breathes. Zayn isn’t moving either, just staring up at Harry with eyes that look gold in the light, gold and wide and open, something naïve in them despite his age.

“Because it’s my fault,” Harry murmurs. It feels like speaking at full volume would break the spell. Would bring back reality. “I said we’d go out there, even though you said it’d be dangerous.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.” Harry lifts the washcloth away gently. He doesn’t want to look away from Zayn, but he does—the white’s stained bright red, so he presses it back.

“Harry.” Zayn’s hand is on his waist, just resting there, like a statement. “It’s just a cut.”

Harry doesn’t know how or when, but his fingers are combing through Zayn’s hair, the side without the cut. He’d say it’s comfort, but it’s not—it’s an excuse to feel this, to do what he’s been dreaming of for weeks. Maybe not like this, and he knows he shouldn’t, that Zayn’ll probably push him away, doesn’t want him—but he can’t resist the magic of the moment. He leans down, so their foreheads brush against each other, and their breath is mixing. “Still. I’m sorry.”

“It’s—” A loud buzzing cuts through the air, loud enough that Harry jumps.

“What?” he glances around. That pulls him away from Zayn, and when he finally turns back, he knows the moment’s broken. Zayn’s gaze has shuttered, and for all Harry’s still so close, he’s not going to dare.

“Your phone,” Zayn informs him. Fucking hell. Harry’s going to kill whoever it is.

“I should—”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s hand comes up to cover Harry’s over the washcloth. His palms are calloused, but his touch is so light Harry almost can’t feel it. “I got this.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly, Harry pulls his hand out from under Zayn’s, and sits back on the couch to pull up his phone.

It’s his mum, of course. Checking in because she saw something about him being mobbed. Harry tries not to be annoyed, because he loves his mum and he’s glad she’s checking in on him, but really? She couldn’t have waited? Zayn had wanted Harry for that brief spell, or something—at the very least, they hadn’t been boss and bodyguard, they had just been Harry and this guy he wanted so badly, who was bleeding because of something Harry did.

Still, he picks up the phone and starts to reassure her, nods when Zayn gestures to the bathroom. So now the moment’s really broken, because Zayn’s gone, and Harry’s just left with the remnants of his blood. Which is quite a lot more morbid than Harry’d been thinking.

It takes him five minutes to reassure her he’s fine, which only confirms that he shouldn’t have told her about the death threats or that Zayn got hurt, before he finally hangs up, and by then there’s water running in the bathroom, probably a shower.

Harry strangles his moan in his throat, then leans forward to bury his face in his hands. He’d been such an idiot. On so many levels. First just taking that risk, then with how he’d been throwing himself at Zayn, at bodyguard Zayn who’s hot and badass and clearly not into younger pop stars, or at least not into Harry, or at least wouldn’t do anything because he’s Zayn’s boss, and he doesn’t really want to think of the scandal involved. Fucking hell. He should never have hired Zayn.

More buzzing interrupts him, but this time he’s glad of it. Except it isn’t his phone. He checks it again, but it’s really not, so he traces it, sticks his hands into the cushions—and comes up with what he knows is Zayn’s phone. It must have fallen out of his pocket.

Harry glances at the caller ID. It reads _Mum_ , which, what if she saw? What if she’s worried?

“Zayn, your phone!” he calls, but there’s no answer, and the call’s about to ring out. His mother would kill him if he let one of her calls go to voicemail after he’s been mobbed. He can’t have Zayn’s mum worried, not when he already got Zayn hurt.

So he flicks open the phone, and presses answer.

“Hi—” he starts, to head off any awkwardness, but someone’s already talking, and Harry’s pretty sure it’s not Zayn’s mum, not unless Zayn’s mother is a little girl.

Because it’s certainly a little girl talking. “Baba, I know it’s past bedtime, but daadi said I could call you and see if you can talk and if you can you can say goodnight to me, and I can tell you about the picture I drew today. It’s got you and me and Uncle Louis and Uncle Liam and daadi and daada and Safaa and Wali and Doniya and Prada and Harley, and daadi said it was as good as yours when you were my age, so can you talk? Please? I’m not tired I don’t have to go to bed yet!”

“Um…” Harry’s not sure what to do with that, with all the little girl enthusiasm, with the names and the words, “I—”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, then, “Daadi!” the girl calls, “Daadi, it’s not baba on the phone!”

There’s shuffling, then the sound of the phone transferring, and a new voice comes on, one thankfully adult. Not that Harry doesn’t love kids. He just wasn’t expecting one. “Hello?”

“Hi!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I must have the wrong number,” the woman says, in a rich northern accent so very like Zayn’s.

“No, you don’t, this is Zayn’s phone. He’s just a bit busy right now. I’m Harry. I’m his, well, boss, sort of.”

“I’ve heard of you,” It sounds like she’s laughing, which is good. Harry likes to amuse people. “Why are you answering my son’s phone?”

“Oh, right. Well, he’s in the bathroom, and I was worried—there was a bit of an incident earlier, and if you had seen it or heard about it, I wanted to make sure you weren’t worried for him.” He lowers his voice, like he’s telling a secret. It’s the voice grandmothers everywhere melt for. “My mum would have killed me, and I quite like having him around.”

She chuckles, and there’s something of Zayn in it, though freer than Zayn is. “Thank you for the thought. It was very nice of you.”

Harry grins, though she can’t see it. She’ll feel it. “You’re welcome.”

“Is he busy, then?”

“I think he’s in the shower?” Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to listen, but he can’t tell if it’s the sink or the shower. “I can have him call you back?”

“No, it’s fine. Laela knows if he doesn’t pick up it means he’s busy.”

“No, he’s not busy!” Harry’s not entirely sure what’s going on here, but he does know he doesn’t want to disappoint that little girl. “Let me go get him.”

He mutes the phone, and heads over to knock on the door. “Hey, Zayn?” A muffled sort of grunt comes from the other side. “Your mum’s on the phone, she wants to know if Laela can talk to you?”

The water immediately shuts off, and the door swings open. After years of experience with being surprised on TV, Harry very competently doesn’t let his jaw drop open. Zayn’s shirt is off, and his hair is loose like Harry’s never seen it before, down past his chin, curling at the nape of his neck. It’s a lot to take in.

“Yeah, I can talk to her,” Zayn says, fast, and holds out his hand. Harry drops the phone into it, and Zayn fumbles it to his ear, ignoring the bloody washcloth in his other hand. “Hey, mum?” he says into the phone. “Yeah, I’m fine, I can talk to her. Put her on.” A pause, then, “Hi, love. What—oh, a picture? Why don’t you tell me about it, then you can go to bed for daadi, okay?”

He turns back to the sink, phone clenched to his ear, and he’s smiling like nothing Harry’s ever seen before, like his whole heart’s in his face, his eyes crinkled and his tongue tucked behind his teeth.

Harry shuts the bathroom door. He can give Zayn that much privacy.

He’s also curious enough, though, that he pulls out his phone, googles baba. He has to try a few variations, but google translate’s pretty clear on what it means. Father.

Which, okay. He’s not jumping to any conclusions, but he’s not sure there are any other conclusions to jump to. And that’s—not what he was expecting. So he just listens to the sound of Zayn talking on the phone, and waits.

When Zayn comes out of the bathroom, he’s off the phone, and his shirt is back on, but his hair’s still loose. Harry knows what people say about his hair, the long loose sleek curls, but he wants to twine in his fingers in those dark thick waves, to brush them back out of his face behind his ears, to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

He doesn’t say anything, just closes the door behind himself slowly.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry says, immediately. He doesn’t like this sort of silence, that has so many layers. “I just didn’t want your mum to worry if she saw anything about the mob today. And then—”

“Yeah, Laela doesn’t give much chance to get a word in edgewise sometimes,” Zayn agrees. That smile dances over his eyes, but it doesn’t reach his mouth. “Doesn’t really take after me.”

“So she’s your….”

“Daughter.”

Harry’d known. Known from the second the little girl started babbling excitedly. Maybe he’s really known since Zayn had talked to Louis about some girl he couldn’t leave alone. But that word—but Zayn’s lips, those lips he’s dreamed about, wrapping around that word—it’s different. Daughter. Zayn has a daughter.

Of course Zayn has a daughter. Of course Zayn has a little girl who looks at him like he’s her whole world, because he is. Of course he has someone to wrap up in his strong arms and carry piggyback and tuck into bed and sing to sleep and now Harry’s heart is hurting, and Zayn’s just looking at him, no expression in his eyes, like he’s waiting for Harry to say something. Maybe daring him to.

Harry takes a deep breath. He has a million questions, not the least of which is ‘why didn’t you tell me’, but he’s always been good on the spot. “Tell me about her?”

It’s the right answer. Zayn smiles and pulls out his phone, walks over to sit next to Harry on the couch, close enough their thighs are brushing. But Harry’s more focused on the pictures Zayn brings up on his phone, of a little girl with a round face and dark hair, smiling hugely at the camera like there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

“Her name’s Laela,” Zayn explains. When Harry glances over at Zayn, he’s still smiling that soft, fond smile at the camera. It’s not fair to be jealous of a child, Harry tells himself, firmly. “She’s four—well, almost five, now, come August. She’s the best kid in the world. I mean.” He shakes his head. “Like, what do you want to know?”

Harry swishes the photos to the right. Here’s one of her with an older man Harry guesses from family resemblance is Zayn’s father, pulling at his nose. Another, and she’s with a girl who might be a sister, very seriously choosing clothes. Another with her and Louis, grinning near-identical mischievous grins.

“What’s her favorite color?” Harry asks, more or less at random.

“Purple. Pink’s too common, everyone loves pink, apparently.”

“She a princess then?”

“She certainly thinks so.”

Harry goes to the next picture, which is her cuddled in Liam’s lap, reading a book. Or at least, pointing to a word in a book. “Is Liam reading to her, or the other way around?”

Zayn chuckles. “We’re not sure. Liam claims he’s reading to her, but Louis’s sure she has a larger vocabulary than Liam. Of course, Louis’s sure she’s the most intelligent child he knows, so I’m not sure he’s an unbiased source.”

“Is she?”

“Of course.” Zayn grins, something little boy in it. “No question.”

Harry laughs too, but he has to look down, away from that look in Zayn’s eyes, that look he’s never seen but god it makes Zayn even prettier somehow, because it’s like his whole heart is in his eyes.

“So, she’s with your parents now?” Harry asks. It’s probably the most tactful way to ask what he wants, because with a child usually comes a mother and a father, but there’s no woman without strong family resemblance to Zayn in these pictures. He goes to the next picture—she’s drawing, her little fingers clenched around a crayon, her tongue sticking out from between her teeth in her concentration.

“Yeah, while I’m here. Don’t want to make Louis and Liam watch her full time.”

“And her mum?” He shouldn’t ask, Harry knows, but—but Zayn didn’t divert like he should have if he didn’t want Harry to ask.  

Zayn’s face freezes, goes back to that total lack of emotion he had in the beginning, that makes Harry’s heart hurt a bit. “She’s not in the picture.”

Dead or divorced? Harry can’t tell, but he knows Zayn doesn’t wear a ring, which is the important thing. Or maybe the important thing is the bleak look in Zayn’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Harry mutters, looking at the next picture. She isn’t in this one—it’s just a selfie of Louis and Liam and Zayn, all grinning. Zayn has a beanie on and his hair is curling out from under it and his arms are bare and covered in tattoos and he’s grinning so brightly it’s like the whole sun is shining out of his face.

It only makes it worse to look up to Zayn’s closed off face. “Not your fault,” he shrugs.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s the logical thing to ask.” Zayn turns away, to look out the window. Harry needs to say something, anything, to cheer him up.

“She’s lovely!” Harry tries. “Four, you said? So you’d have been—” he cuts off, as he does the math, but Zayn just turns to him with that same bleak expression on. Sometimes, Harry thinks he shouldn’t be allowed to talk.

“Twenty-two,” Zayn snaps. He gets up now, and this is not at all what Harry wanted. Harry’s supposed to be good at this. “Yeah.”

He could ask, could press and find out the full story—but he wants Zayn smiling. He wants Zayn smiling, and he doesn’t want him mad at Harry when Harry already violated his privacy by answering his phone. He wants Zayn smiling fondly at him again, and he wants to hear more about this lovely little girl who talks too much and draws pictures like her dad.

“Is your head feeling better?” he asks, as a diversion. Zayn snorts.

“It’s fine.”

“Let me see.” Harry gets up too, runs his fingers over Zayn’s scalp to the cut. It’s so much worse—or better—when his hair’s loose, thick and heavy and smooth, and Zayn tilts his head to look up at Harry when he does, so so close again.

But unfortunately, it’s not bleeding anymore, so Harry only lets his hand linger for a second before he steps away. He’s not intruding anymore.

Except… “Tell me more about her?” He asks, and tugs Zayn back to the couch. “Was she why you went home?”

“Yeah, wanted to see her for a second,” Zayn says, and there it is, he’s smiling again as he tells Harry about how surprised she’d been.

\---

Harry doesn’t really think about it until after the next concert. Well, he thinks about it, obviously—may or may not daydream about Zayn holding his little girl, about the little girl with Zayn’s eyes calling Harry daddy, about all three of them curled up together reading, about Zayn fucking Harry and covering his mouth with a whispered, “Can’t wake up the kids!” Harry’s always liked kids, always thought about having them, but this is the first time those dreams came with a co-parent. It’s weird. And then, of course, there are the other daydreams—of Harry bandaging something of Zayn and ending up actually in his lap, of Zayn asking him to kiss him better.

But he doesn’t actually think about it, not until after the next concert. It wasn’t as mad as it was yesterday—maybe because they have more security after the mob—but it’s still electrifying, and Harry’s still buzzing as he runs off stage to wild cheers.

He can’t see Zayn, so he slaps the band’s backs, and runs over to find Paul to tell him where to go.

Zayn’s talking with Paul in the green room, both of them looking at something on his clipboard. Because he looks busy, Harry does not throw himself on Zayn’s back again, however much he wants to. Instead, he trots over to them, unable to resist bouncing on the balls of his feet from the energy.

Paul notices him first, which is probably because he’s the one mostly facing Harry, although Harry would have preferred Zayn to notice him immediately.

“Good show,” Paul says, looking at Harry briefly then down at his clipboard. “Want to go to the hotel, or out?”

“I’ll—” Harry wouldn’t mind going out tonight, to go exploring or to a club to get out all this excess energy, maybe find someone to dance with to make him stop thinking so much about Zayn, but as he’s about to say that, he glances over at Zayn. Zayn’s still looking down at the clipboard, his eyelashes long enough that Harry could count them.  He got hurt last night, because Harry was reckless. He got hurt, and he’s got a daughter, whose mother isn’t in the picture, and he could get hurt and it would be Harry’s fault that little girl was alone, just because he felt like getting some validation. “I’ll just go back to the hotel,” Harry decides, “And I’ll go out the back, if you think that’s better.”

Paul gives him a Look, but he shrugs, looks at Zayn. “Zayn?”

If Paul’s look was trying to figure out what Harry was up to, Zayn’s is a thousand times worse. It’s questioning and worried and piercing and Harry wants to squirm under it, or maybe do a dance so it changes from Zayn thinking about him as his charge to Zayn thinking about him as a man whose clothes he’d like to rip off.

But now is not the time for that. Not when last time he was distracted by that he got Zayn hurt.

“We think we’ve figured out the front now, should be fine,” he says, still looking at Harry like he’s saying something more.

“No.” Harry shakes his head. He’s not getting Zayn hurt more because of his own stupidity. “No, the back is fine. And I feel like just chilling and watching a movie tonight, anyway.”

“Easier for me.” Paul shrugs, and gives the clipboard another look. Harry used to have theories about how the clipboard is actually the source of all his authority and if Harry stole his clipboard he’d get to boss everyone around. He’s since realized that’s not true, but he still believes it a little. “You have a radio interview tomorrow afternoon, then we’re on the bus.”

“Yes sir!” Harry salutes with a grin, then turns to Zayn as Paul walks away. “Are we going?”

“Whenever you want.”

“There’s not a better time? Should we wait, so crowds will die down?”

“Do you want to wait?”

It’s probably better they get to the hotel. Then Zayn can call Laela from there, because he’s been with Harry all day and hasn’t had a chance. Although it’s too late, maybe he won’t. But he’ll want to check in on her.

“No, let’s go,” Harry decides, and lets Zayn usher him away.

\---

At the hotel, after Zayn does his customary check, Harry collapses onto the couch, and Zayn goes into his room, like usual. So now Harry is all alone, in his big hotel suite, and he’s still got all this energy, and he needs to do something. He jumps back up to his feet, goes to the window to look out, at all those lights and things, then opens up his phone.

_Booooored,_ he sends to Niall. It’s about that time he might be in his office, rather than on the floor of the bar. _Amuse me_

Luckily, Niall must not be busy, because he sends back quickly enough Harry’s only gone through a bit of Instagram, _Some of us have work to do_

_Not you if you’re texting back. Come on, Nialler, tell me a joke._

_You only like shitty ones._

Harry pouts at his phone. Niall’s known him long enough he probably knows his expression.

_Seriously I’ve got to get this accounts balanced before I go insane. Call you tomorrow?_

Harry sighs. His friends are useless sometimes. He tries Nick too, but doesn’t get an answer, and Aimee and Ian just posted something about their date, and Jeff’s really bad at texting when it’s not actual practicalities, so Harry sighs. He needs to do something, to talk to someone. He can’t just sit still, and the room’s too big.

Really, he only has one choice, so he goes to Zayn’s room to knock.

It takes a second, but Zayn opens the door. Harry gets a glance of his room—a normal hotel room, obviously, but there are a surprising amount of clothes strewn over the room and a laptop and what looks like a textbook open on his bed—before he focuses on the more important thing, which is Zayn asking, “Yeah?”

Harry hadn’t actually decided what he was going to say. But he’s always been good on the fly. “I was going to watch a movie,” Harry tells him. It’s a good plan, really.  “Do you want to watch with me?”

“What movie?”

“Hadn’t decided yet?” Harry gives his best, dimpling smile. “If you come you can help decide.”

Zayn glances back at his bed, then at Harry, then does that nervous gesture he has where he touches his ear. “I’ve got to finish something up, but give me like fifteen minutes?”

“Sure! I’ll just see what movies they have, then?” Harry backs away quickly. The sooner Zayn gets started on whatever he’s doing the quicker he’ll finish it. So he lets Zayn close the door, then turns to the room. He—well, first thing, he needs a shower. Watching a movie together could lead to cuddling, and Harry doesn’t want to smell gross if Zayn is touching him. So he hops in the shower. He means for it to be a quick shower, he does, but then he gets a little distracted choosing the best scents possible and making sure his hair will curl properly, so when he comes out, a towel wrapped around his waist, Zayn’s in the common room, texting.

He looks up when he hears Harry coming, then back down. He finishes typing out his text, as Harry debates running to his room or hanging around basically naked, then looks up again, totally bypassing all of Harry’s very nice bare chest and abs to settle his gaze on his face. “Sorry, it took me less time than I thought….”

“No problem! What movie do you want?” Okay, so he’s basically naked and Zayn’s right there and looking at him. It won’t be a problem unless Zayn touches him and it becomes a really big problem. Harry snorts a little at his own thought, but doesn’t explain when Zayn raises his eyebrows. “We can get something on demand, or I’ve got my laptop.” He finds the remote to flick it on, go to the channel.

“Honestly, anything that’s not Disney’s good with me.”

“You don’t like Disney?” Harry demands. He might have to rethink this whole crush thing. He’s not sure he can have a crush on someone who doesn’t like Disney.

But Zayn chuckles. “Nah, just, like, that’s all I watch with Laela. I need to take my chances to watch not princess movies when I can.”

Okay. Scratch the rethinking. Harry’s having a hard time not jumping him right now. “What’s her favorite?”

“Frozen,” Zayn sighs. “She’s been singing Let it Go enough to drive my mother insane.”

“Yeah?” Harry grins, hums a few bars. “What’s your favorite?”

“Aladdin,” Zayn answers without hesitating.

“Oh? Have a crush on Jasmine?” Harry asks, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. He knows it doesn’t hurt, but Zayn still moves away.

“Nah, I’m just Aladdin,” Zayn retorts, though, like he hadn’t been running away from Harry. Or not running away. Just didn’t want to be that close. Because that was not how close employers were with their employees. “What about you? What’s your favorite?”

Harry has to remind himself that saying Aladdin is flirting and Not Allowed. “I always liked Cinderella,” he admits, “Although mainly I just watched princess movies with my sister.”

Zayn opens his mouth—the shakes his head. “No, I’m not talking about kids movies when I don’t need to.” He nods at the TV. “Is there something you want to watch?”

“You can choose! If you don’t get to watch many movies, you should get a chance.”

“I’m not—you can choose,” Zayn demurs. “I don’t think you’d like my movies.”

“I would!” Harry’s pretty sure he’d like anything Zayn likes. Or he’d pretend to at least.

But Zayn just shakes his head again. “No, you pick.”

“Okay.” Harry’s not going to just pass on that, so he browses through some of the movies. “How does Casablanca sound?”

Zayn hums, but nods, so Harry chooses it, then sits on the couch. Zayn hesitates. “Are you going to put clothes on?”

Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want Zayn to want him to. He wants to press his naked body to Zayn and then have Zayn take off all his clothes too. But he can’t, and he’s not going to make Zayn uncomfortable. “You mean you don’t want me naked?” he replies, because he can and flirting is second nature, but he laughs before Zayn can react. “I’ll be right back.”

He changes into sweatpants and an (admittedly tighter than normal) t-shirt, then comes back out. Zayn’s on one side of the couch, sprawled out with his legs spread invitingly, so Harry very resolutely does not fit himself in between those legs and instead settles onto the other side of the couch. Because he can’t help it, though, he does kick his legs up onto the cushions, so his toes are pressing against Zayn’s thigh. If he stretched, he could probably stroke over Zayn’s thigh, get him worked up—but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns on the movie, and very firmly doesn’t really let himself get distracted by Zayn.

It would be easier if Harry didn’t still have all this adrenaline, so sitting still like this is _hard_. Harry’s never been particularly good at sitting still in the first place, but sitting still when he’s got all this energy and the guy he’s crushing on is next to him is more than he’s qualified to deal with. He does his best, fidgets maybe a lot, but he gets through the movie. And sometimes during the movie he only fidgeted because he could feel Zayn looking at him, and it’s hard for him not to react to that.   

But when the credits roll, he’s still too keyed up to sleep, or be one his own, and he doesn’t want Zayn to leave. Zayn doesn’t seem to want to leave either, or at least he doesn’t move as the music over the credits fades, just stays on the couch, leaning back into the corner with an arm stretched over the back. There’s a place between his arm and his body that Harry thinks he would fit quite nicely into.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t, and instead a quiet settles over them, as Harry watches Zayn’s eyes go to a sleepy half-lidded that’s so sensual it’s really unfair. It’s too much, and Harry’s never been particularly good with silences anyway, so he reaches out his toe to poke Zayn’s thigh. “Hey.” His voice sounds loud in the quiet of the room, but if he whispered he doesn’t think he could resist climbing onto Zayn’s lap, especially when Zayn’s eyes flutter open. “Why didn’t you tell me about Laela before?”

Zayn shrugs, but Harry cuts him off before he can talk. “And don’t say she never came up, because I’m pretty sure she’s every other one of your thoughts.”

That gets him a smile, and Harry grins back. “Come on, why didn’t you? I thought we were friends.” Well, not friends exactly, but close enough. Close enough that Harry’s going to throw that out there and hope it doesn’t get knocked back, especially when he gives his most endearing smile with it.

Zayn’s lips press together, like he’s thinking, so Harry has to poke his thigh again. Okay, maybe it’s more his hip, and maybe it’s more a graze than a poke, but it gets his attention. “Do you not trust me?” Harry demands. He shouldn’t be pressing this, but he wants to know every corner of Zayn, and now Zayn was keeping this big secret. But he’s feeling more and more like Zayn can see every part of him if he looks, and he wants to do the same to Zayn. “I’m very trustworthy!”

“I know.” Zayn agrees, immediately. “I’m just—not, like, a sharer?”

“There’s not sharing and then there’s not telling me about the most important person in your life. I’ve heard all your Louis stories! Laela stories must be cuter.”

“They are.” But Zayn’s face doesn’t relax. “I just—do the math.”

“The math?”

“Yeah. You did it once, right?” Then Zayn’s getting up and no, this was not Harry’s plan. Why didn’t Zayn just talk about something else if he didn’t want to talk about this? Harry would have been happy to be distracted with cute Laela stories, if it meant Zayn staying here and smiling like he does when he talks about Laela. “You can do it again. I just don’t always like people to know.”

“Know what?” Harry asks, but Zayn just shakes his head.

“Night, Harry. I’ll check your room, then I’m going to bed. Thanks for the movie.”

“No, sorry! We could watch another.” Harry surges up to his knees, so he’s about as tall as Zayn is standing. He doesn’t want Zayn to go. He doesn’t want to sit here alone with nothing to do. “It’s not late and we have late call, there’s time.”

Zayn pauses. Harry gives him the innocent, charming face that he knows no one can really resist, and he can see when that…stiffness leaks out of Zayn’s face.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, and sits back down. “What do you want this time?”

\---

After the next show, Harry manages to convince Zayn to have another movie night, then they’re on the bus so it doesn’t matter. Paul keeps on giving him weird looks—Harry doesn’t usually stay in this long, usually needs to get out and do things and see people—but he _can’t_. Not when he sometimes still remembers what it felt like to have Zayn’s blood on his hands.

It’s in Sheffield, at the second to last UK show, that Zayn catches Harry’s arm during that in between time between sound check and the show. Harry’d just finished doing laps of the arena, mainly for something to do, and is mid-taking off his sweaty shirt, which he’s pretty sure is the only reason he didn’t immediately know where Zayn was. Instead, though, there’s a brush of a hand against his bare back and he jumps, nearly falls over, and is caught with a hand he certainly recognizes from the butterflies at least.

Luckily, he’s got his blush under control by the time he finishes taking his shirt off. And Zayn’s hand is gone, which helps the blush, but is in general not a state Harry likes.

“Sorry.” Harry’s pretty sure Zayn’s laughing, but his face doesn’t really show it. Harry still wrinkles his nose at him.

“Mean,” he teases, “Thought you were supposed to make me feel safe, not scare me.”

“Sorry,” Zayn repeats, apparently more sincere. It’s nice, but it means the hint of mischief’s gone out of his face. He looks younger when he’s grinning like that, and Harry doesn’t see it very much. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Or make you fall over.”

“Well, that one’s not hard,” Harry admits, turning around so he can lean against the wall. Zayn’s gaze flicks down his sweaty torso once, then back up to his eyes. Still, it’s enough to warm Harry up. “What’s up?”  

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Not really, but…” Zayn bites at his lip, then reaches out and puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Each of those would be bad, but both of them, and the look he’s giving Harry, concerned and intent, are all more than Harry’s body can take, and he sways a little, more towards Zayn than anything else. “You know you don’t have to be scared, right? I get that the mob was scary, and that the whole death threat thing is enough to rattle, like, anyone, but that’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to hide just because of it.”

“What?” Harry blinks. It’s not at all what he was expecting.

“You don’t have to hide,” Zayn repeats. His thumbs moves over Harry’s skin, in what was probably meant to be a comforting rub but is actually just more arousing than it probably should be. “From fans, or not go out. It’ll be okay if you do. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I—I’m not scared!” Harry protests. He’s not a scared little kid hiding from the monsters, what he’s doing makes sense, and Zayn should know that. “Or, I am, but not of—you got hurt.” It comes out in a jumble, a mess of words and emotions and Harry can’t even look at Zayn, it’s too embarrassing. “You got hurt because I ignored you when you said it was too dangerous. And you have a kid, and if something happened to you…”

“Harry.” Zayn saying his name is enough to make him stop, if not enough to make him look up. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I’ll get hurt? Not you?”

“Well, I know you’d protect me,” Harry mutters. God. Why’d he even admit this?

“Harry,” Zayn says again. Harry loves how he says his name, like it’s a statement. Not like other people do sometimes, with a sigh or a ‘won’t you stop’. Just his name, dragged out like Zayn likes how it tastes. “Babe, that’s not—I’m your bodyguard. It’s what I do. You don’t have to worry.”

“I got your blood on me.”

“That little thing?” Harry’s still looking down at his hands, so he sees Zayn’s hand come down, wrap around his, draw it up and put it on his hair, right over where the cut was. “See, you can barely even feel it now.”

He can’t, it’s true. But he can feel Zayn’s hair, and his hand, warm and present and concerned for Harry, not just his physical health but his emotional well-being.

He glances up at last. They’re close again—how does that keep happening?—and Zayn’s eyes are big and right there and he’s all cheekbones and eyelashes and he’s biting his lip again and Harry’s mind basically blanks out.

“I’m not very good with blood,” he admits, because it’s better than doing something stupid like kissing him.

Zayn’s lips curve up, and his hand comes down from his own head to poke at where Harry’s dimples would be, if he were smiling. “Then I’ll make sure you don’t see any of your own.”

Harry can’t keep from smiling then, at the caring and Zayn’s hands on him and the sheer nearness and prettiness of Zayn. This close, he can see when Zayn’s teeth dig deeper into his lip—and he can imagine he sees heat in Zayn’s eyes before Zayn takes a step back.

\---

That night, Harry does the fan line, signs autographs and smiles at people and feels Zayn’s gaze on his back the whole time, like the warmth of a blanket. And then that night he finds a club where he can drink and dance, and maybe he’s not entirely dancing for the person he’s with, maybe there’s more than a bit of him that’s showing off the grind of his hips and the way his body can move for the man leaning against the wall—but if he is, he’s too drunk to notice if it works, as Zayn helps him out of the club and into the car, and doesn’t say anything when Harry falls into his shoulder on the way back. All in all, Harry thinks, falling into bed feeling properly tired and unenergetic for the first time in a week, a good day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Next (and last) chapter up on Friday.

Almost before Harry noticed, the UK leg of the tour is finished, and they’re back in London for a short break before going on to Europe. It’s nice, to be able to see Niall and Nick and everyone, but in general Harry actually doesn’t like breaks on tour. London never quite feels like home, during those breaks, and there’s not enough time that it makes sense to go to L.A. It’s hard to say any of that, though, when Zayn’s so clearly excited to be back in London.

Laela’s not even there—Harry had been sure to check, because he’s heard so many stories about her at this point he thinks he basically knows her, whether from Zayn volunteering stories or Harry demanding them, and he can’t wait to meet her in person—but Zayn’s still been talking about his flat and his bed almost dreamily for the past week. Harry can’t really blame him, because he’s pretty dreamy about Zayn’s bed as well, but still. He’s not sure what it’s like to be that excited to go home, to go back to Liam and Louis and the flat they all share a la Full House.

So it is nice to be back in London, he supposes. He hangs out with Niall for a day, trailing him around the restaurant as he fills him in on tour (though he still doesn’t mention the threats, because he wants Niall to come with him some day and he’s not going to scare him), goes out with Nick and all that clique, hangs around Radio 1. He and Gemma go shopping one day, Zayn trailing a few feet behind, and she keeps on waggling her eyebrows in his direction whenever she thinks he’s not looking. Harry just glares. If he’s not allowed to make a move on him, his sister most certainly is not.

It’s almost the end of June when Harry goes in for a meeting. Zayn doesn’t talk to him in the car, seems a bit moody with how he’s looking out the window, his brow furrowed, but it’s early and Harry’s pretty sure him talking doesn’t always help cheer people up, so he stays quiet, just nudges Zayn gently with his knee, to show he’s there. It works enough that Zayn gives him a weak sort of nod, before he goes back to looking out the window.

They go upstairs, and Zayn settles into a chair in the lobby while Harry goes in. It’s basically just about setting up the next leg of the tour, making sure everyone knows the dates and travel plans and everything else, so Harry just sits back and lets Paul and Lou and James the head roadie talk about transport. He pays attention, obviously, because he’s not a spoiled brat and these are things he needs to know, which is how he notices when Paul says they’re flying out to France the morning of August 2nd.

Suddenly, Zayn’s bad mood makes sense. Laela’s birthday, he’s heard, is on the first—he’d watched over Zayn’s shoulder one day on the bus as Zayn decided what to order for her, and may have grabbed a little pink sweater he saw while out with Gemma, just because—but if they’re flying early on the second, there’s no way Zayn can get back from Bradford in time.

“The concert’s on the 3rd, right?” Harry asks. Paul nods, though everyone’s looking at Harry in a bit of confusion. Harry’s pretty used to it. What’s the point of being rich and famous if you can’t be a bit eccentric? “Is there any way we could fly the evening of the second?”

Paul’s head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Don’t see why not, at least for you. Is there a reason?”

Harry grins. “I’d just won’t be back for a few months, want some time here.” It’s not a lie. He wants time here, he wants Zayn to have time here, same difference.  “Would it be too much trouble to change it?”

Not even Paul can really stand up to his puppy dog eyes. “Sure,” he agrees, and makes a note on his clipboard, before they move on to talking about the Italy leg.

Harry doesn’t mention it to Zayn, as he’s not sure the change is going through, but the next day—the twenty-ninth—Zayn’s bad mood’s disappeared when Harry gets into the car to go out to the club with Niall. It’s not obvious, but Harry’s spent a lot of time watching Zayn, and he’s not staring out the window anymore. Now, if anything, he’s stealing glances at Harry from under those long eyelashes. It’s a bit intoxicating, watching Zayn be anything less than self-possessed because of Harry, even if it’s just because of something nice Harry did that anyone would have done.

“Hey,” Zayn says at last, when they’re almost to Niall’s restaurant, where he’s been working late before he goes out. “I wanted to, like, thank you. For getting me that day.”

“What day?” Harry asks, all innocence.

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem at all exasperated. If anything, Harry’d think he’s being bashful, but that doesn’t fit with his calm, collected Zayn. “Paul said you asked for that day, and now I can go see Laela. So thanks.”

“It’s nothing.” Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t really change anything for me. But oh!” He pokes Zayn on the shoulder for emphasis. “Don’t let me forget to give you her present.”

“Her present? You didn’t—”

“It’s just a little thing. Because I’m stealing her daddy away so often.” Zayn’s lips are twitching, and he ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s smiling, so Harry doesn’t ask anything more. He doesn’t want Zayn to actually say he can’t.

Then Niall gets in, and they can’t talk about it anymore. Instead, Niall regales them with stories about his customers tonight, and he gets Zayn to giggle with them, his whole body curling over. Harry tries very hard not to pout, but by the time they get out—the second time Zayn’s ever met Niall—he’s already looking at Niall like he’s something amazing and precious, and Harry wants to just grab his face and make him look at Harry. Wants to go out and do something stupid, just so he has to look at Harry. He’s not sixteen anymore, so he’s not going to, but it’s not fair. He’s the charming one, how come Zayn isn’t looking at him like that?

The club turns out to be more of a pub, because Niall picked it, but it’s a mix of old school pub and dance floor and modern sort of aesthetic that’s actually really neat. Harry knows he should let Zayn go stand by the wall and hover and do his thing, but instead he pulls him into the booth next to him, so they’re on one side like a real couple, facing Niall.

Niall doesn’t sit down anyway, just grins and nods at the bar. “Three pints?”

“Two,” Zayn corrects.

Niall laughs. “Don’t worry, the third was for me!” he yells over the music, and pushes through towards the bar.

Harry angles himself so most people in the place won’t be able to see his face properly. It also lets him see Zayn properly, but that’s just a side advantage.

“Are you looking forward to the next leg?” Harry asks, for something to say. Zayn’s looking good tonight, all in black with his hair pulled back, and when his eyes move up to Harry’s it looks almost like they’re golden in the low lighting of the club.

“Sort of?”

“Sort of how?”

“Not looking forward to being so far from Laela,” Zayn admits. “I know my mum and dad will take care of her, and she loves her summers at daadi and daada’s, but it’s a long time for me to be away.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been away for so long?” Harry’d looked at his employment records, but not that closely.

Zayn nods, though, and tugs on his ear. “Yeah. It’s—a few months is, like, an eighth of her life, or something. I don’t want her to think I’m neglecting her.”

He’s not drunk yet, but Zayn’s confiding in him, telling him things about himself, and the club lights are dark enough that no one can hopefully see and really, Harry just wants him not to have that furrow in his brow, so he puts a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “You’re on the phone with her every night. I don’t think she’s neglected.”

“She already had one parent run away,” Zayn says, almost too quietly to be heard. “I never want her to think both did.”

“She—”

“Pints!” Niall announces. Harry’s never hated him more. Well, he’s never really hated him at all, but he almost could right now, as he watches Zayn’s shoulders square and his bodyguard mask come back on. “Here you go, Haz. Now, you looking for someone tonight?”

For someone specific, sitting to his left, maybe. “What about you? I’m not the one who needs help,” he retorts, and Niall snorts.

“Never needed help with a bird in my life,” he shoots back.

“It’s true,” Harry tells Zayn, a bit mournfully. “It’s the Irish charm. It always gets them.”

“Because you aren’t charming at all?” Zayn drawls. Harry dimples.

“Never said that.”

“This one,” Niall leans forward, gesturing with his pint, “He’s legend, with birds and blokes. And now, being all famous and all, he’s got an in anywhere. It’s amazing.”

“Not anywhere,” Harry demurs, and doesn’t look at Zayn. Instead, he gives Niall a hard stare that he hopes communicates for him to shut up now.

Apparently, a decade of friendship doesn’t always equal telepathy. Harry’s very disappointed in them. “Really? When’ve you ever had trouble?”

“Maybe I just want classier people now,” Harry tries. “Are you looking for something? You haven’t had a girlfriend since what, Barbara.” He doesn’t point out his record’s probably worse than Niall’s, really.

“Oh, Barbara.” Niall toasts the air. “That was a good run.”

“Of what, a week?”

“A month.” Niall sighs. “God, her tits…”

“Classy.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be a pop star who hooks up exclusively with celebrities now,” Niall shoots back, laughing. “Some of us have to settle.”

“Yeah, you’re really settling,” Harry says, as Niall throws a wink over their shoulder at, Harry sees when he turns slightly, a leggy brunette.

Niall grins. “I’m gonna dance.”

“That what the young people calling it these days?” Zayn mutters, as Niall slides out of the booth. Harry snorts.

“For right now. If Niall was going to go fuck her, he’d have said that.”

Zayn blinks. “I’m getting that idea.”

“He’s not—he just says what he means!” Harry says, hurriedly. He doesn’t want Zayn getting the wrong idea about Niall. Even if it might mean he’d look at Harry more. “And he doesn’t go out much, because he’s working all the time, so he’s just taking advantage of it.”

“It’s okay!” Zayn holds both his hands up. “It’s nice. Refreshing, like.”

Harry sticks his lip out. “I say what I mean.”

Zayn laughs. It’s not the response Harry wanted. “No, you don’t,” he says, gently. “But that’s good too. Neither do I, usually.”

“I could!” Oh god, he could say everything he meant, about how he wants to just climb into Zayn’s lap right now, about how he wants to insist Zayn take him to meet Laela and his family and everyone important to him, about how Zayn has everything he wants in life and is everything he wants.

“Nah, then you would have to argue with people,” Zayn teases. “And you couldn’t have that.”

“I could—no, I couldn’t,” Harry admits. “I’m bad at arguing. I’m better at sulking.”

“Never would have guessed.”

“Hey.” Harry makes a face at Zayn, who just smiles back. It’s that smile, the relaxedness of it, the way he stretches out his arm so his fingers are brushing Harry’s shoulder, how it makes him feel like he’s not there because he’s Harry’s bodyguard but because he’s Harry’s friend, that makes Harry ask, “Do you want to dance?”

The smile freezes, and about ten different emotions go over Zayn’s face, too fast for Harry to parse. “I can’t.”

“I’m your boss, if I say you can—”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupts, rubbing at his ear. “I’m here to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dancing with you.”

Well, fine. Harry gets that message. Bodyguard, not friend. Not anything more.

“Don’t sit here with me,” Zayn goes on, like that’s something Harry doesn’t want to do, “Go find someone more—like, someone who can.”

“Fine.” Harry surges to his feet. “I’m going to go dance.”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees, and bites on his lip. It’s so unfair. How can he turn Harry down and still bite his lip like that and have it go straight to Harry’s cock?

Not that he did turn Harry down, Harry reminds himself, as he bounces onto the dance floor. If anyone recognizes him here, they aren’t saying, so it’s easy enough to throw himself into the music. He just reminded Harry of why he’s off limits. Which is good. Because Harry needed that reminder, probably still does, because even when he’s dancing with the fit blonde who he more or less stumbles into, he still glances around to find Zayn, and to make sure he’s still looking at him.

\---

Harry spends the next few days mainly with Niall, because he’s shit at texting so Harry needs to get all the face time with him he can. And he’s not sure how much he trusts the bodyguard filling in for Zayn not to lose him, which he thinks probably isn’t a good thing given the circumstances, so he’ll stay more or less in one place. So he hangs out with Niall, fiddles with some songs for his next album, and ends up in the VIP lounge at the airport on the night of the 2nd feeling well rested.

Zayn’s already there when Harry gets in, sitting on a couch on his computer. Harry had been thinking that the time away from him would probably be good. His crush really had been getting out of control, if it was affecting how he did his job; the separation would let him rein it in. And it had. He hadn’t thought about Zayn while he was away, except to wonder briefly if Laela had liked the present.

But seeing Zayn again…Harry’s not sure if the separation actually did anything. The memory of him just didn’t quite live up to the fact of him, the prettiness and the way he seemed to center the room when Harry saw him, a calm space for Harry to focus on.

“Zayn!” Harry grins, and before he can think about it he’s thrown himself onto the couch to hug him, burying his face into Zayn’s neck and holding him tight. He still smells the same, even if Harry really should not be thinking like that.

Zayn hugs back, tight for a second, then loosens his grip, so Harry does the same. Greeting hugs, good. Long lingering hugs, bad. “You’re back!” he says instead.

“Yep. Just got in.” Zayn glances around the room. “This is nice.”

“Perks to flying first class,” Harry explains, gesturing around the nearly empty lounge.

“Not that you’d be mobbed otherwise?”

“That too.” For a second, he’s just grinning at Zayn, and Zayn’s smiling back, and it’s almost a moment. Then Harry shakes his head, pushes his hair back. “So, how was Laela’s birthday party?”

“She was the center of attention for a whole day; it’s her favorite day of the year.” Zayn smiles, and opens his computer again to show it. “She loved the sweater. Even though it was pink.”

“They didn’t have purple!” Harry protests, and leans in close to see the pictures. There’s Laela in a crown and a purple sparkly boa, tapping Louis on the head like she’s ordering him around. Her grandparents, her aunts, her honorary uncles, are all there, and she’s ruling over all of them, of course, but none of her subjects seem to mind. It’s so picturesque, Harry sort of thinks it needs to be in some sort of advertisement.

Harry gets to the end of the pictures, then closes out of the folder. He’s about to ask more about Laela’s reaction to his present, and whether Zayn thinks the matching hat was too much, when he’s distracted Zayn’s computer background. He’s not sure he’s ever properly seen it, but it’s pretty sick—a collage of all the people Zayn cares about, his family and Louis and Liam and other people Zayn assumes are other friends, and obviously Laela all over, from her as an infant in Zayn’s arms to her at a birthday with Zayn’s sisters all helping her blow out candles.

“Who did that?” he asks, nodding towards it. It doesn’t look homemade, with how the colors contrast and the composition. Not that Harry really knows, but he knows people who do, so that counts. “It’s awesome.”

“Um…” Zayn glances away, almost bashful. “I did.”

“Really?” Harry looks from the screen, to Zayn’s face, then back at the screen. He’d known Zayn had done art before, in college, but this is really good. Harry can’t really find it in him to be surprised. Of course Zayn’s good at everything.

“I can do things other than punch things,” Zayn mutters. It’s got an edge to it Harry didn’t expect, so he draws back a little. Zayn’s shutting off, his face going blank.

“I know,” Harry says, slowly. He’s not sure what he said wrong, but he clearly misspoke somewhere. “I just didn’t know this was one of those things.”

“Well, it is. I used to be good at it, too.”

“Still are, apparently.” Harry tries to grin, but Zayn’s scowling at his computer screen, like it’s a bad memory. “Why’d you stop?”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, and oh, right, of course. “Well, this is sick,” Harry declares. If he edges closer to Zayn to properly examine it, that’s neither here nor there, and anyway Zayn’s smiling again, even if he isn’t meeting Harry’s eyes. “You need to mess with my twitter layout, because—”

“Mr. Styles?” They both look up. A lady from the airport is standing in the doorway, looking at them. She seems to be unimpressed by either. “I just wanted to give you a rundown of what’s going to happen.”

“Okay.” Harry shifts away from Zayn and stands up, grinning harmlessly at her. “Shoot.”

“We’ll be general boarding in about twenty minutes. Then we’ll put you on last. Your bodyguard will go on with you, then back into coach. Does that work?” The way she says it makes it sound like she’s waiting for critiques, but Harry shakes his head. It’s maybe a bit weird Zayn’s flying coach instead of with him, but these had been booked last minute, and he’s found raising a fuss too many places isn’t good for getting things done or for his image.

“That’s fine—what’s your name?”

Her eyes narrow. “Nancy.”

“Well then, that’s fine Nancy! Thanks for all your help.”

He can see her softening. “I’ll be back to get you when we’re ready.”

“Brilliant.” She gives a curt nod, but Harry knows when people are just trying not to be charmed by him, and this is one of those times, so he just keeps smiling at her while she leaves.

It’s only once she leaves that Harry remembers there are other concerns here than his convenience. “Is that okay?” he asks Zayn, turning back to him. “I can get her back if you want something done differently.”

“That’s fine.” Zayn’s still looking down at the phone, his shoulders curved in.

“Are you okay?” Harry’s never really seen Zayn look like this, with his knuckles white on the edges of the phone.

“What? Yeah.” Zayn looks up, does something that’s almost a smile but isn’t at all. Harry gives him his best unimpressed look, which he copied from Nick so he thinks it’s pretty decent. Zayn shrugs. “I am.”

“Really?”

Zayn ducks his head. “I just—like, I’ve never flown before. I know it’s stupid, and that all that shit Lou was saying about loop-de-loops is just shit, but—I don’t love heights?”

Harry clenches his fists to keep from hugging Zayn again. He hadn’t expected that, but it makes sense, if Zayn’s never been away from Laela for that long before. Still. “You’re afraid?”

“No,” Zayn spits, but he’s still not looking at Harry. “I’m not—like, I’m the one who checks Laela’s closet for monsters. I’m not afraid.”

“Well then.” Harry can’t help himself. It’s…he wants the tension in Zayn’ shoulders to go away. It’s weird, he’s known him for only a little more than a month, and Harry’s always felt so young compared to him, with his daughter and fighting and how he’s keeping Harry safe. But Harry’s done things he never has. Harry’s had people watching him constantly since he was sixteen. He’s been around the world twice at least. These things he knows, and Zayn doesn’t. So he edges in close, next to Zayn, so he can throw an arm around his shoulders.  “I promise there aren’t any monsters on the plane.”

Zayn snorts, and Harry lets himself grin. “No, really, it’s fine. Just chew gum when we’re taking off and lifting down, and sleep in between. I’ve done it a thousand times, nothing bad ever happens.”

“It does sometimes.”

“Yeah, but it won’t this time.” Harry just laughs when Zayn rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll bet you a hundred pounds it won’t crash.”

Zayn’s lips press together. “That doesn’t work, though? Because I don’t—I mean, if it crashes, I’ll have more things to think about than getting a hundred pounds from you.”

“Fine.” Harry sighs. “Ruin my fun. How about, if you get scared you can come make sure I’m safe, and I can hold your hand.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Harry grins, flutters his eyelashes. “Maybe I just want to hold your hand.” He starts to hum, because he does want to but he’s also not joking. “I wanna hold your ha-a-and,” he sings, letting go of Zayn so he can sing it to his face, “I wanna hold your hand.”

He expects Zayn to chuckle, and turn away, but instead he chuckles, and adds, “And when I touch you,” he grabs Harry’s hand, still smiling, “I feel happy, inside.”  

Harry should sing the next lyrics. He should, he knows them, but he can’t. Zayn’s singing a love song to him, his voice smooth and sensual, and god Harry wishes it were true, but he can’t talk about hiding his love, not right now.

He must wait too long, though, because Zayn drops his hand, steps back. “Thanks,” he says, and he’s not smiling anymore. “I’ll do the gum thing.”

“Yeah. Do you have gum?”

Zayn nods. He’s chewing on his lip, it clearly hasn’t settled.

“Hey,” Harry tries, thinking hard, “You’ve never been to Paris, right?”

“Of course not.” Zayn’s voice is as flat as it had been when they first met.

“Hm.” Harry nods thoughtfully. “Have you wanted to?”

\---

Zayn doesn’t come up to hold Harry’s hand during the flight, which is disappointing but not really unexpected. Instead, Harry spends a happy hour planning, and when he gets off, Zayn’s face is a little white but he looks okay.

“So, did you puke?” Harry asks, and Zayn rolls his eyes, and shows him to the back exit so they can avoid the mob that’s forming.

\---

They go straight to the hotel, and then there’s a meeting to go over their itinerary for the Paris leg, even though its less than forty-eight hours and one show, then Harry goes to sleep early. He wants an early start.

He’s up with the sun, and looks at the list he made on the plane the day earlier. He’ll have to cross some things off, because sound check is earlier than he thought, but there still should be plenty of time. He goes to find Mark, has a good workout and yoga session, and by the time he’s back upstairs Zayn’s waiting for him, his whole body sleepy.

“Why did you have to be a morning person?” he complains, and Harry laughs and hands him a cup of tea.

“So you would get out of bed,” he retorts. “Come on. We’ve got things to do.”

“What things?”

Harry pulls up his hood so it covers his hair, which is really what most people use to identify him offhand. “Things,” he repeats, very mysteriously, and leads him out of the hotel.

Their first stop, Harry’d decided, would be the Eiffel Tower, because you had to see it and the earlier they went the less crowded it would be. Zayn was still his usual grumpy morning self when they went up the elevator, but all of that faded, as Harry’d thought it might, as he looked out over the Paris skyline, alight with the morning sun.

“It’s beautiful,” Zayn breathes, stepping forward a bit to see better. Harry manages to school his grin before Zayn turns back to look at him. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and isn’t even looking at Zayn when he says it. “Pictures? Good. Now we’ve got more to see.”

Zayn seems like he’d be willing to stay there forever, but Harry has a list and things to cross off. They go to the Arc de Triumphe next, take a quick stroll down the Champs Elysee, but Zayn’s pretty clearly nervous with all the crowds there, and Harry doesn’t blame him. But they have to do Notre Dame, and if all the gypsies make Zayn put his hand on Harry’s back to keep him close, well, Harry will have to live with it until they get inside, and he can watch as Zayn tilts his head back to look at the sweeping arches, can follow the play of colored light over Zayn’s face.

“’s weird,” Zayn murmurs, into the reverent quiet. Harry’s keeping his head ducked, but he doesn’t think anyone would think to see him here, even with all the tourists. He can almost pretend he’s just out with a friend, showing him the wonders of Paris. “It’s not my god.  But I think he’s here.”

Harry tilts his head. “Do you believe in god?” He’s never been sure, really. He wasn’t raised one way or the other.

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah. Not sure about religion all the time. But Allah, sure.” He takes a deep breath, eyes wide as he looks around. “What else are you doing?”

Paris isn’t Harry’s favorite city—it’s a little too contained for Harry’s general exuberance—but there’s still so much more. They don’t have much time, though, so Harry lets Zayn call for a car to take them up to Montmarte. That’s always been more Harry’s style—the colors, the bohemian clothes. Zayn laughs as he bounces from store to store to look at scarves, holding them up for Zayn to judge. Harry wishes they could get their pictures painted, but he can’t risk someone recognizing him, so instead he leads Zayn past the artists when Zayn looks like he might have lingered.

“This was where all those artists lived,” Harry informs Zayn, as they wander up towards Sacre Coeur and the restaurant Harry’d gotten reservations at. “Like, Van Gogh and Dali and Monet and—”

“I know.” Zayn’s voice is as reverent as it’d been in Notre Dame, his gaze flitting around the area. “It’s—like, this place is steeped in art and history, and—I never thought I’d see it.”

It’s basically exactly what Harry wanted to hear. “See, there are some advantages to being my bodyguard,” he teases, and leads them towards the restaurant.

The great thing about the French is that, though he has his fair share of fans here, generally people are too polite to really acknowledge him, so it’s easy to get a corner table. Zayn hesitates as he gets there, but Harry just pulls out the other chair with a flourish and a wink, Zayn sits down, even if he gets tense.

“I can’t eat alone,” Harry says, before Zayn can protest. “It’d be weird. You don’t want to be responsible for me being seen as weird, do you?”

“I think that ship’s already sailed.” Zayn leans back in his chair, angling it so he can see the whole restaurant over Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s glad of it, that he’s making sure Harry’s safe. He’d just like to have him look at Harry, too.

“Probably,” Harry admits, mournfully. “What do you want?”

Zayn looks down at the menu. “Um…”

It’s French, right. Harry’s sort of learned enough to get by, or at least to manage in restaurants, but Zayn wouldn’t have.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll suggest something?” Harry offers. Zayn nods, but the smile that’s been on his face since they set foot on the top of the Eiffel Tower’s gone.

“Nothing with pig. Or snails. Or frogs.”

“So picky,” Harry teases, but they finally agree on a sandwich he’ll probably like, and Harry orders for them both, with a dimpling smile at the waitress and a discrete few euros when it’s clear she recognizes him. 

Zayn’s still looking over Harry’s shoulder, scanning the room. It’s his job, Harry knows, but they’re having lunch. The least Zayn could do is to look at him.

“So, how are you liking Paris?” Harry asks. Zayn does look at him, now, his eyes crinkling into a small smile.

“Not as much as you,” he replies.

“Hm? Nah, Paris isn’t my favorite. Not that it’s not great!” Harry hurries to assure him. “But I like L.A. And New York. And Miami. And Australia.” Oh, he’ll have so much to show Zayn in L.A. Even if the US is so bad for crowds. But so much, and then his house—Zayn will have to stay with him. And maybe, if he can manage it, he can get Zayn to bring Laela. If he paid, maybe for a nanny or for one of Zayn’s friends to bring her, and it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of room… But that’s for later. “Why’d you think that?”

“Well, like, you’ve already done the touristy things, yeah?” Zayn’s giving him that look again, that x-ray look. “So, I mean, if you wanted to see them again…”

“Well, I’ve seen them before. But you haven’t.” Harry grins when Zayn’s eyes widen. “If you’re going to go to Paris the first time, you’ve got to do it right. And you can’t go places without me, so…” he waves his hand around the room. “Paris!”

“Harry.” There’s a whole world of meaning in the word, more than Harry can understand. There’s even more in his gaze, when Harry meets it, something bewildered and pleased and maybe lost. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry can’t meet that gaze anymore, drops his head to watch himself mess with his napkin. “Gotta take my guide responsibilities seriously. Make sure you see everything you should.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” He looks back up at Zayn, so he knows that. Zayn’s looking at Harry. He’s smiling, but his mouth is twisted, into something almost bitter. “My pleasure, really.”

“Sure you enjoy doing all the touristy things all over again,” Zayn drawls.

“I like watching you do them,” Harry replies, before he thinks, but he smirks and keeps it there when Zayn rolls his eyes at him. It’s nothing less than the truth.

\---

“So, Harry, you’ve been enjoying Paris, no?”

Harry grins at the interviewer, leans back in his seat. He likes TV interviews. He’s always like being in front of a camera, and this is the sort of thing that comes naturally for him, flirting idly with the interviewer even though she’s old enough to be his grandmother. And this one’s going to be subtitled, so he doesn’t have to deal with a translator, which makes it much more difficult, because he doesn’t like having so much time to second guess himself.

“I always enjoy Paris,” Harry replies, “And Parisians,” he adds, with a wink, that has the interviewer giggling back. She’s nice, he likes her. Often older interviewers treat him contemptuously, but she’s game.

“I think it’s mutual,” she replies, in her thick French accent. “But you weren’t with a Parisian yesterday, were you?”

“Yesterday?”

A picture shows up on the screen behind them. It’s of the restaurant—well that was forty euros badly spent, Harry thinks—and while it’s only of Harry’s back, it’s still clearly him, in what looks like (and was, honestly) an intimate meal with someone else. Who happens to be clearly caught on camera, in all his unfairly photogenic glory. Zayn makes the picture look like it should be in a magazine, it’s amazing.

Harry can’t help his immediate reaction, which is to glance over off camera to where Zayn’s leaning against a wall, waiting, with Paul. Paul’s giving him a sharp look, but Zayn’s expressionless, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks the same as he always does, like this doesn’t matter, but that’s just because he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how this could make him lose his privacy forever.

Harry’s not going to let that happen. “Yes, it’s true, the truffles were delicious,” he jokes. The interviewer laughs, but there’s a glint in her eyes like she’s not letting this go. Harry doesn’t blame her—if she could get something out of him, she’d be the first to say it—but he’s not letting her.

“You’ve been seen with him before,” she goes on, “Do you have someone special in your life at last?”

“Everyone in my life is special,” Harry corrects her. “Everyone is special. Remember that,” he adds to the camera. “You’re all special.”

“So then he’s, how do you say it, no one?” she presses.

“He’s not no one!” It comes out faster than anything else Harry’s ever said, probably, so he adds a smile to the end of it. “He’s my bodyguard, so he’s very important. I trust him with my life. Literally.”

“Your bodyguard?” she asks, raising a delicately skeptical eyebrow. Is it a French thing, Harry wonders, to have such expressive eyebrows? “Do all your bodyguards get a romantic day in Paris?”

“Is that you applying?” Harry asks, and dimples winningly at her. Why isn’t she just letting this go? He doesn’t like her anymore. “I’ll be sure we accept.”

 “I’m sure you’d prefer to be with someone who looks like him,” she shoots back, laughing lightly. “Not an old lady like me.”

Harry echoes her laugh. “He is pretty, isn’t he?” he asks, gesturing at the picture. “But I’d choose you. Experience is important, isn’t it?”

“Oh, what would you know of experience, little boy,” she teases back, and finally lets it drop, going on to ask about places he’s excited for on tour later. Harry doesn’t heave a sigh of relief as he answers, but that’s mainly because he doesn’t want her to scent the blood in the water. Instead, he dials up the flirting. People won’t see that Zayn’s someone they should pay attention to on his watch. He won’t be responsible for that.

Paul claps Harry on the shoulder when he gets off stage, before he heads back to makeup to get all of it washed off. “Good job,” he is all he says, but Harry knows what he’s talking about.

“Thanks! It wasn’t obvious?”

“No more than you usually are,” Paul sighs. Well. If he was so concerned about this, he shouldn’t have hired a bodyguard who was everything Harry ever wanted, should he? Still, he gives Harry his best fatherly concerned look, like he used to give him years ago when he cried in interviews. “It wasn’t—”

“No,” Harry says firmly. Dates require everyone knowing it was a date. So this was…only sort of a date. He darts a glance at Zayn, but Zayn doesn’t appear to realize what’s happening.  “I said I wouldn’t, and I haven’t.”

“Harry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know why not, Paul.” This is absolutely not the place for this conversation, but it has to be had. Harry does know. All the reasons, job and child and Harry himself. All the many, many reasons, that all disappear every time Zayn touches him. “We’re back to the hotel before the show, right?”

“Right,” Paul agrees, and lets him go. Zayn doesn’t move as Harry leaves, just keeps scanning the room, his eyes never settling on Harry, and it’s horrible and probably for the best right now, when everyone’s watching. Harry wishes they were back on the Eiffel Tower, though, with no one in the world mattering but them, when Harry almost could have taken Zayn’s hand.

\---

_It didn’t work_. Nick’s text comes later that night. It’s always nice to know how Nick keeps up with his press, gives him advice about it. It’s good payback for the publicity Harry gives him just by their friendship existing. Not that knowing they have that sort of exchange makes Nick less of a good friend, because they’d be friends even if Harry wasn’t famous, Harry knows, if they had met somehow. It’s just an added bonus.

_What do you mean?_

_I mean #parisdate_ _is trending_. Shit. Harry opens twitter, and sure enough, there it is. When he clicks on it, looks at the tweets, it’s worse. Well, it’s mainly supportive, and most of them actually seem to like Zayn—there’s a lot of gushing about his eyelashes/eyes/cheekbones/hair/everything, which Harry totally agrees with—but they’re clearly trying to figure out who Zayn is. To track him down. And he knows his fans, they’re going to do it, especially because the people Zayn’s worked for before aren’t low profile.

_Thanks!_ he sends Nick, then groans, and gets up to go knock on Zayn’s door. He needs to talk with him.

“Zayn?” he calls, knocking.

“Yeah?” There are the sounds of Zayn getting out of bed, of walking to the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry answers, quickly, stepping back as the door swings open. Zayn ‘s right there, clearly on high alert. “Or, nothing bodyguardy. I’m fine.”

“Good.” Harry can see Zayn’s shoulders relax, and he leans sideways against the door frame. Harry has the distinct urge to snap a photo, of Zayn lounging against the door, his arm raised to scratch at the back of his neck so his shirt’s lifted to reveal a line of skin above his jeans. But also true to modeliness, he’s not smiling. He’s as expressionless as he had been when Harry first met him. “What’s up, then?”

“I have to talk to you about something.” Maybe Paul should—but no. This is Harry’s fault. Harry did the not-really date. He needs to deal with the consequences.

“Okay.”

Harry brushes the hair back from his face. He doesn’t like this, a Zayn who Harry can’t read, who gives Harry one-word answers not to tease but to watch him squirm. It’s annoying. But he can’t turn away from this.

“Can I come in?” he asks, instead. “Or you could come out here. Just, it’s not a standing up in a doorway conversation.”

Zayn glances back over his shoulder. Harry doesn’t see what he’s looking at, exactly—it’s a hotel room, with a fairly old suitcase on the floor, a computer open on the bed, a pad of paper next to it with what looks like a drawing on it—and shakes his head. “Couches are the only place to sit.”

He doesn’t move, though, and it takes Harry a second to realize it’s because he’s in the way. “Oh, right.” He retreats, back to the couch, and Zayn follows, dropping into the arm chair. Usually he sits on the couch with Harry. It’s… “Are you mad at me?” he asks. That’s the first thing. “Because if you are, you should probably wait until after we talk about this, then you’re going to be even madder. Wouldn’t want you to waste all your mad.”

Zayn sighs, as cathartic sounding as Paul’s, and he rubs a hand over his ear. “I’m not angry. Sorry. Just in a mood.” He scrubs his hands over his face, and when he emerges he seems a little more relaxed. “Why am I going to be mad?”

“Well.” Harry purses his lips, trying to figure out where to start. “Um. So. I don’t know how much you know about my fans, but they can be a little…”

“Violent?” Zayn drawls, rubbing at his head.

Harry doesn’t want to look at the memory of that, of Zayn’s blood or of how it had felt to be that close. “Well, yeah. Though they don’t mean to. But mainly, like, a bit obsessive sometimes? And they—do you know what shipping is?”

“Sending things places?”

Harry snorts. “No. Just, like, they like to speculate on people I’m dating. And they get invested in it. Which is fine for me, usually, just leads to awkward questions, but Nick’s gotten some pretty intense hate before.”

“I’m aware.”

“You are?” Harry jolts. Have they found him already? He’ll have to do something—

“Of course I am, people fixating on that can turn into stalkers, I’ve learned about it.” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, and leans back, his legs falling apart like he does, like he’s claiming all the space, making himself bigger.

“Okay. Well. They’ve started shipping us.” Zayn’s eyes widen for a second before he shuts it down again, so Harry hurries on. “I’ve been trying to stop it, that’s what I was doing at the interview today, but it didn’t work.”

“But that’s—why?” Zayn demands. “I mean, it’s—I’m just—like, you wouldn’t—”

“Well, yeah, I know.” This is possibly a harder talk than the time he had to ask Gemma about sex because he didn’t want to talk to his mom. “Although, you’re really hot, so they see me around with a really hot guy all the time, it happens.”

“But—”

Harry doesn’t want to hear all the reasons it’s ridiculous for them to be linked. “I just wanted to let you know, so you could prepare. Hopefully it won’t be anything, but if they figure out who you are, get a hold of information about you—well, most of my fans are amazing, obviously, but there are people who might say things—”

“It’s fine.” Zayn’s jaw is set. “I don’t back down to bullies, told you.”

“They’re teenaged girls!”

“They’re still bullies, if they’re spreading hate.” The look he gives Harry is almost the same as he gave Frankie before he fought him, even but bright.

Still, it’s not that easy. They’re not on a playground anymore, or in a ring where fists win. “Zayn,” Harry says, trying to be soft, “They might find Laela.”

Zayn freezes. “What could they do to her?” Half of it is challenging, but there’s curiosity too.

“I’m not sure. But it could happen.” He needs to impress on Zayn that this is serious, that this could actually affect him. Even if, honestly, if there are going to be the rumors anyway Harry wishes he could get the benefit as well. But he can’t, he won’t, so he puts a hand on Zayn’s knee. Zayn glances at it, then back at Harry, and he bites his lip, then nods.

“Okay. How do I deal with this then? I can’t stay away from you, it’s my job.”

“There’s nothing you really can do,” Harry admits. “The PR team will work on it, and I’ll keep saying stuff like I did. It’ll probably blow over. I just wanted to make sure you were prepared. If you’ve got social media stuff, now’s when you delete them or make them really private.”

“I just—I mean, I’ve got Instagram, but I don’t really use it, and it’s not my real name…”

“Still, lock it down.” Harry looks down at his hand, thinking. There’s not that much else Zayn can do, really. He has to stay close to Harry. Harry doesn’t want him scared away.

But it’s okay, because Harry will figure out how to nip this thing in the bud, without having to spend less time with Zayn or not let him explore cities together. He can do that.

“It’s okay,” he says, and because he can, because he’s weak, rubs his thump over Zayn’s knee. Zayn’s teeth dig into his lip more. “It’ll probably blow over once people realize it’s not near the truth.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Zayn’s got his head bowed, so Harry can think he’s staring at Harry’s hand as well, how it fits on his leg. “No where near it.”

“No where,” Harry repeats. Glad they agree on that. “Anyway, I need to—I’m gonna go read in my room. Just wanted to keep you updated.”

“Let me know if you want to go out.”

“Don’t think so. But I’m going to go down to the gym before we leave.”

“Okay. I think Chris is outside, take him.”

“Yep!” Harry squeezes his knee one more time, then gets to his feet. He needs to strategize. He needs to strategize, and not think about how Zayn agrees he’d never really go out with Harry, that Harry’s young and silly and flighty and not worth meeting his daughter.

He’s almost to the door when a rogue table gets in the way. It hits his thigh, makes him spin, stumble—then Zayn’s hands are on his arms, catching him, keeping him on his feet.

“There you go,” he says, almost a murmur. His breath is hot on Harry’s neck, his hands strong around his arms. Harry could turn around and kiss him right now, could maybe even explain it away as comfort or something. “Don’t hurt yourself in here.”

“I’ll try,” Harry agrees, and gets out of the room before he does.

\---

Harry deals with it. He meets up with a friend of Daisy’s in Amsterdam, is seen with her; he tweets at Nick a bit, he’s luckily asked about Taylor once in an interview, so all of that starts back up. It’s convenient, because he’s maybe not being the best at being discreet in other ways. But he doesn’t see why he should deny Zayn the pleasure of seeing the world just because some fans might do something nasty. He trusts his fans, in general.

So he takes Zayn out, every city. There aren’t any more intimate lunches, unfortunately, but they wander through the streets of Amsterdam, of Copenhagen, of Oslo, of Berlin and Munich. Harry manages to convince Zayn that going to La Alahambra in Barcelona isn’t too big a security risk, to balance out all the Christian stuff everywhere, and he’s rewarded with the way Zayn’s eyes light up as they get inside, how he turns around with a smile like he’s never seen anything better, a smile which hasn’t faded when he turns to Harry to thank him. It’s fun, to see all the places with someone who’s never seen them before. It’s even more fun to put a smile on Zayn’s face, when he’s getting moody more often, into those quiet moods Harry doesn’t quite know how to deal with other than just letting him be. But Harry’s pretty sure that’s just homesickness, given how the moods come more often after his daily calls home, so he figures the best antidote is to see how much more of the world there is than just home.

_Are you having a baby without telling me?_  Niall texts him late one night. They’re on the bus, on the way to Rome, which is the last stop on the European leg of the tour. Next up is Australia, which Harry is really excited for, because he loves Australia.

_I don’t think so?_ Harry’s pretty sure he would be told if he were having a baby. He’d be really angry if he didn’t get told, even if it was him having made a mistake.

“Zayn?” he asks, out loud. Zayn looks up from his computer, where he’s been doing something very intently for the past hour, his tongue poking out from between his lips as he concentrated. It hasn’t been helping Harry’s concentration as he messes around with a new song on his guitar. “I’m not having a baby, am I?”

“Wouldn’t you be the one to know that?” Zayn replies absently. He jots down a note on the notepad sitting on the table, then goes back to the computer.

“Paul didn’t tell me when I was getting death threats. And this is sort of exactly the opposite, right? Life or death.” Harry grins, pleased with the pun, but Zayn snorts, still not looking up.

_Then why’d I see this?_ Niall asks, along with a picture of a magazine cover sitting on what Harry recognizes as the counter of the bar at Direction’s. At first he doesn’t see himself, but then in the corner there’s a picture of him holding up a purple princess costume he found in a store in Copenhagen, with the headline HARRY STYLES: BABY DADDY? underneath it. Harry can’t help smiling at the picture, at how Zayn is just out of the shot, rolling his eyes at him as Harry demands if Laela would like it.

_Because I’m the prettiest princess_ , Harry replies to Niall, then out loud, “Oh, never mind. It was just Laela.”

“What?” That gets Zayn’s attention away from the computer.

“No, just, there’s a rumor because I’ve been buying stuff for a little girl. It’s okay. These are really easy to deny.” Harry makes a face at Zayn, so he’ll stop looking so worried. “Unless you’re planning on giving me a baby…”

“Think I’ll pass. I’ve seen how painful it looks.” Zayn glances down at the computer, then back up at Harry. “But you really don’t have to buy her all that stuff you’ve been getting her.”

“Shush.” Harry waves that away. He most certainly does. Every girl should have a princess costume. And a scarf from Paris. And the cutest little jacket he found in Madrid. And this hat from Oslo. And something from basically everywhere, but he wants her to like him, and buying things is the easiest way to her heart if he can’t meet her. “I like buying kids things. I think I totally outfitted Lux for a year.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zayn closes his eyes briefly, and Harry’s distracted by the eyelashes on his cheeks so he doesn’t really manage to stop staring when Zayn opens his eyes again. “But you’re going to spoil her.”

“Good. I don’t have one of my own to spoil, I need to spoil yours.” Harry sticks out his tongue, and Zayn chuckles. Harry takes another look at the magazine cover. What would it be like, he wonders? If he was buying clothes for a baby. For his baby. For someone that would be his, that would matter more to him than anything, that would be the place he would always have to be or come back to. What would it be like to have that? He doesn’t know, but he thinks he’d like it. “Sometimes I kind of want one, though.”

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“You’re twenty-three. You don’t want a baby.”

“But you had Laela when you were twenty-one!” Harry protests. He doesn’t need Zayn telling him he’s too young for this.

The bus hits a bump, and both of them grab on instinctively. Harry’s never nervous in the bus, but it’s raining out, and it’s dark, and it feels like it’s just the two of them in the world, Zayn with the shadows on his face and Harry curled up in the armchair watching him.

“And you think that was on purpose?” Zayn retorts. He leans back, away from the computer, and rubs his face with his hands like he does sometimes when he’s tired. “Really?”

Harry hadn’t thought about it, really. Thinking about that meant thinking about Zayn and Laela’s mother, and Harry didn’t particularly like doing that. And, well, his idea of life stages is a little skewed, he’s pretty sure. “It wasn’t?”

“Fuck, of course not. We were in uni. We weren’t thinking about anything like that.”

Harry sets his phone aside. He hadn’t meant to start this discussion, but now he’s curious, about this part of Zayn he hasn’t talked about yet. The one that was almost a teenager and had a daughter. “Then why’d you have her?”

Zayn shrugs. “Religion. Belief. Responsibility. Her mum thought she could do it.”

“She couldn’t?” Harry asks, softly. Zayn’s face is screwed up, frowning harder than Harry’s ever seen him. He looks older than usual, his face pulled together, his lips pursed so all the lines of his face are extenuated.

“No.” It’s a statement, painful in the finality of it, somehow echoes by the sound of the rain on the windows.

“Where is she?” Harry asks, though, because he’s never learned to leave well enough alone, and because he wants everything Zayn will tell him. Because this feels like a night for these sort of conversations, both of them exhausted and the dark all around them.

“She’s working in Chicago. A publicist.” Zayn’s lips twist into a parody of a smile. “She always was good at convincing people she could follow through.”

Harry shouldn’t ask. He knows he shouldn’t, but, “Were you in love with her?”

“No.” Zayn laughs humorlessly. “Not even a little. We’d gone out for a few weeks that summer, then all I knew is we both went back to school. Next thing I know, I’m going to be a dad, and I’m dropping out of school to provide for a family and her mom’s deciding she just can’t do it, and then I—” Zayn cuts himself off, drops his face into his hands. “Fuck. I’m not—I love Laela. More than anything. I wouldn’t give her up for the world. But—Harry, you’re twenty-three. You’ve got the fucking world at your feet. You don’t want a baby now.”

“You did the right thing.” It’s not the last thing Zayn said, but Harry’s ignoring that part. He knows that, really. Even if he’s been daydreaming sometimes about a little boy with his green eyes playing with Laela, as he and Zayn look proudly on. “It’s the responsible thing, right, to provide for your family?”

“I know.” Zayn snaps, his head coming back up. “She’s the one who ran away. I owned up and I took on my responsibilities, and I don’t regret it. I don’t regret Laela. But—Harry, don’t choose this.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, then shakes his head again. “Just—don’t.”

“Zayn, I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” The smile Zayn gives him is bleak and tight, but it’s there, even if it’s nowhere near his eyes. “It’s fine.”

It’s not, that’s pretty clear, but Harry’s not sure how to fix it. Not when the silence that falls is about as cold as the rain outside, when it’s filling the whole bus.

After ten minutes of it, while Harry plays on his phone and tries not to squirm too badly, he has to ask, “What are you working on?” He’s really bad at people being mad at him. And it’s worse when it’s Zayn.

Zayn sighs, but when he looks up Harry’s grinning his most charming, endearing smile, and it even works on him, because he relaxes. He must know that Harry didn’t mean anything by his questions. He just wants to know about Zayn.

“I had an idea, that if the person giving the death threats is so fervent about converting you, they’re probably going to be tweeting at you. So I’m looking at all the tweets you’re mentioned in, seeing how much of it is hate, and of what is what sounds like it could be them.”

“All the tweets?” Harry asks. He doesn’t check every day, but he’s got twenty-five million followers, there must be a lot of tweets.

“I’m trying to focus on times when there’s a lot of noise about you and another guy.”

That still has to be a lot. “There’s nothing better to go on?”

Zayn shrugs, still looking at the computer. “Nothing else I can do. The emails are looking to be a dead end.”

Well. Okay then. Harry takes a deep breath. Zayn won’t let anyone hurt him.

“Do you want help?” he asks.

“Harry.” Zayn’s biting on his lip, and eyebrows are contracting. “They’re—I don’t think you want to look at these.”

“I know what people say.” Harry shrugs. “If I can help not get killed, I will.”

Zayn still shakes his head. “No. You don’t have to see these.”

“I’ve seen them before, Zayn.” Harry has to laugh a little, at how Zayn’s trying to protect him from mean things people say. He’s pretty sure he knows about that better than Zayn. But it’s sweet, and Harry—Harry really likes him for it. For how he doesn’t think guarding Harry ends with his body. “I can handle it.”

He gets up, walks over to the couch, and sits down next to Zayn, conveniently close enough that their thighs are touching, that Harry’s arm brushes Zayn’s every time he moves.

“You shouldn’t have to again,” Zayn insists.

Oh, god. How is Harry supposed to deal with this? He doesn’t have a choice, really. He brushes a kiss over Zayn’s cheek, and tries to ignore the fact that this is Zayn’s skin under his lips, that if he moved a tiny bit he could be kissing Zayn for real. “That’s sweet,” he tells him, staying close so he can whisper it. “But I’m really fine.”

“Um.” Zayn swallows. Harry’s close enough he can watch his adam’s apple bob under the dark stubble of his beard. “Yeah. I mean. Like, if you wanted to help, you could—here.” He grabs the notebook, pushes it towards Harry. “I’ll give you usernames to write down.”

“Sounds good!” Harry agrees. In for a penny, in for a pound, he figures, so he picks up the notebook, then turns sideways on the couch, so his back is held up by Zayn’s arm and he can rest the pad of paper on his knees. It’s the most comfortable way he can sit; really, it’s efficient.

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a long time. There must be a lot of hate to go through, Harry figures as he doodles idly in the margins of the paper. This is probably not the best place to put hearts around Mr. Harry Styles-Malik.

Finally, though, “Harry’s butt bitch 73,” Zayn says. His voice is a little hoarse, but then he clears his throat, goes on, “Minus all the vowels.”

“Numbers are numbers?”

“Yep,” Zayn confirms, and goes on.

\---

“Why don’t bodyguards ever smile?” Kayla’s voice is loud in Harry’s ear, and he almost jumps back from how she’s pushed up close to him so he can hear her over the music, but he’s known her forever and also he’s tipsy enough that closeness is always good. “Your bodyguard would be so hot if he smiled.”

“My bodyguard is always hot!” Harry corrects, maybe a little petulantly. “And he does smile.”

“Hasn’t since we got here,” she yells back. Her tits bounce as she moves to the music, and Harry gives them a cheerfully appreciative leer. She catches him and grins back. “He’s just frowning and watching us.”

“That’s ‘cause that’s his job,” Harry explains. It’s important people know that Zayn’s job is to look at Harry. “I can get him to smile.”

“Bet you can,” she retorts, with a similarly cheerfully suggestive smirk, “Wonder if I could?”

“No.” Harry waggles his finger in her face, then grabs her hips so they can dance. They’ve been dancing like this since they were too young for even fakes to be convincing, so he doesn’t have to think with how they move together, laughing and falling over each other as much as anything. He’s needed this, a night out with no pressure and a way to get out all of the stress of tour before the Australia leg starts, and the fact that Kayla’d gotten a job at the UK embassy in Rome only made it better. The lights flash in her face, turning her skin into a rainbow, and her curls are in his mouth, and it’s familiar but so not in the best way, because it’s so very much not Holmes Chapel.

They dance until Harry can’t stand up anymore, then stumble to the table next to where Zayn’s holding up the wall. Kayla’s much drunker than Harry is, and so while Harry makes it to the table, she trips over her heels, and Harry’s trying to get his legs to move to catch her when he realizes Zayn’s already there, his hands on her waist.

She smiles at him, murmurs something that’s probably just thanks, but it makes Harry squirm, try not to glare. He doesn’t want her hurt, obviously, but Zayn’s supposed to catch him. Zayn’s supposed to be his hero, the one who saves him, not who saves other people.

“No,” Harry repeats, once Kayla’s made it onto the chair. He glances over her head at Zayn, but Zayn’s gaze is fixed somewhere over him. He doesn’t like it. “I told you, no.”

“I wasn’t!” she raises her hands, palms out. “Promise I’m not poaching.”

“It’s not poaching,” Harry argues. “But—” but if I can’t, no one can, he wants to say, but he can’t say that. Not when Zayn’s right there. Not when that’s not something he’s got any right to say. “But come on, we should get more drinks!”

“I just sat down,” she whines, but takes Harry’s hands when he holds them out. He tugs her to her feet—then overbalances, stumbles backwards. And of course Zayn’s there, catching him and setting him on his feet just like he did Kayla, letting go just as quickly. It’s good. Part of the point of tonight, along with all the other reasons, is that it’s good for Harry to be seen with a girl, with someone who isn’t Zayn, even if no one knows who Kayla is.

“Thanks!” Harry yells at Zayn. Zayn nods, and steps back. He’s been standoffish all night, and Harry would do something about that, will do something about it, once they get to a place where there aren’t cameras, where they can just be friends, but right now he just goes off with Kayla to get another drink.

He stays for a few more drinks, but the accumulated stress of a leg of tour is catching up with him. He could power through, because he has a day here and then a few days in Australia before he has to perform, but he feels a little bad. He doesn’t know how late Zayn was up two nights ago after Harry got tired and went to bed, looking at twitter accounts, but he’s pretty sure it was very late, then last night there had been an interview after the show and then a concert Harry had wanted to go to so they didn’t get back until very late, and Harry had vaguely heard him moving around early when he had rolled over and gone back to bed. And then he had to go out with Kayla when he heard she was in Rome too, because he hadn’t seen her in years even though she used to be his closest friend. So neither of them have gotten much sleep, but Harry knows how to deal with it, and it seems mean to make Zayn stay out.

Still, it’s three in the morning when Harry begs off. He kisses Kayla’s cheek goodbye in the atrium of the club, laughing when she tugs at his hair like she used to when they were ten, then watches as she darts outside, hails a cab and gets in.

Their car pulls up right as her cab pulls away, and then there’s Zayn’s hand on his back as he ushers him out of the club and into the car, that steady, easy pressure that somehow Harry can feel in his whole body. Zayn gets in after him, pulls the door shut.

He isn’t smiling, Kayla’s right. He’s not even smiling like Harry’s learned to find in the corners of his eyes and mouth, like he does when he wants to keep it secret that he’s not nearly as badass and intimidating as he can come off, that actually he goes gooey when they watch movies with dogs in them, and refused point blank to watch Marley and Me.

“Za-ayn,” Harry coaxes, grinning winsomely, “Why’re you in a bad mood?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Harry puts his hand comfortingly on Zayn’s thigh, because it feels like a time to be comforting. “Tired? Sorry I stayed out so late, I just haven’t seen Kay in years, wanted to catch up.”

“Your prerogative, isn’t it?” Zayn replies shortly. He crosses his arms, and he’s still not looking at Harry.  “To party with pretty aides.”

“You thought she was pretty?” Harry swallows. She is, always has been, a pixie of a girl with a wicked grin, but he didn’t know that was Zayn’s type. He doesn’t know Zayn’s type at all, really. Whether it’s girls like Kayla or lanky boys with curls and green eyes and a face more interesting than traditionally handsome.

“I—never mind. I’m just tired.” As if on cue, Zayn yawns. “Ready for a break.”

“Well, we get one!” They pull up to the curb, and Harry waits as Zayn gets out, then steps aside to let him out. It’s too late for people to be lingering, though Harry thinks he catches the glimpse of a flash as Zayn holds the door open for him.

Zayn really is tired, Harry thinks, as he steals glances at him in the mirrored wall of the elevator. He’s paler than he has been, and he’s got shadows under his eyes. It’s not unattractive, of course, but it makes Harry want to tuck him into bed and feed him and make him sleep.

They do their usual routine when they get up to the hotel room. Harry waits outside while Zayn sweeps the common areas, then he goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth while Zayn checks the bedroom. As Harry’s ducking into the bathroom, he sees Zayn make a face, then pull his phone out of his pocket as he steps into Harry’s bedroom. “Mum?” he says, then the rest of what he says is muffled by the door closing.

He takes his time in the bathroom, because it always takes Zayn a while in his room and he’s ready to just fall into bed, especially now that he’s stopped moving. He forgoes a shower for just washing his face—he’ll have a workout in the morning and shower then—then heads out. Zayn must be done now, especially because he’s more efficient when he gets in his untalkative moods, like he’s in a hurry to be on his own.

But he’s not in the common area, where he usually waits. “Zayn?” Harry calls. Then he sees him. “Zayn?”

Zayn’s sitting on the floor, his back to Harry’s door, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, like he’s trying to make himself small. His phone’s dangling from one hand, and he just looks—defeated.

“Zayn?” Harry asks again. He moves closer slowly, like he’s trying to coax a cat into liking him.

Zayn looks up. His eyes are big, and something glitters in those long eyelashes that looks suspiciously like tears. “Laela’s got appendicitis,” he says. His voice is flat and expressionless, like he’s reading a menu. “She’s got an operation tomorrow morning.”

“Oh god.” Harry falls to his knees next to Zayn, so he can put his hands over Zayn’s. “Is she okay?”

“She’s having a fucking operation, how should I know?” Zayn spits it out, but Harry knows better than to think he’s mad at Harry. “And there’s no way I can get there in time, and I don’t have time off here on such short notice, so I can’t even be there for my daughter when she’s probably scared and it could go badly and I’m her dad, I should be there.” Zayn’s head drops, so Harry can barely hear what he says. “I can’t even do that right.”

Harry takes one look at him, slumped on the floor, and gets to his feet. “Don’t move,” he tells him, and turns around to go find Paul.

\---

It takes Harry enough money that ten years ago his jaw would be dropping that that much even existed, a number of favors with people varying from signed shirts to a promise of a personal meeting, and some of Paul’s own favors—he’s just lucky Paul’s also secretly a softie and likes Zayn—but forty-five minutes later, Harry gets back to their hotel room. Zayn hasn’t moved since he left, his whole body drooping like he doesn’t have the energy to lift it. He doesn’t even look up when Harry comes back in, though he twitches enough Harry knows he knows he’s here.

Harry taps his shoulder gently anyway. “Up,” he urges. “Come on Zayn, up.”

“What?” Zayn’s head lifts. His eyes are bloodshot, like he’s been crying. “Harry, if you need to go anywhere, I really can’t. Take someone else.”

“No, you have to pack a bag.”

“Harry, where—”

“England,” Harry says, and he tries not to grin because it’s sad and he’s worried for Laela too but he can’t help his pleased, satisfied little hop when Zayn’s whole body sort of tightens. “You’re getting back there. I figured it all out. Our plane leaves in an hour, and we should get there by seven.”

He shouldn’t be happy, he knows, but Zayn is staring at him like he’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, and it makes Harry’s stomach flip and warms him from his fingers to his toes. “How?” Zayn asks.

Harry shrugs. “There are some advantages to being an internationally famous popstar. Now get up. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

\---

 Harry falls asleep as soon as the plane takes off, but he doesn’t think Zayn does, given how he’s in the same position when Harry wakes up as he was when he fell asleep, his fingers clenched around his phone like it’s going to ring even when it’s turned off. Harry watches him for a long moment, his slumped shoulders and white knuckles, before he yawns ostentatiously. There’s something too voyeuristic about seeing Zayn like this without him knowing.

Zayn gives him a weak smile. “Morning.”

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours. Pilot said we’re on the descent?” The plane jostles, and Zayn’s fingers tighten on the phone. Maybe he’s scared for himself, too, Harry realizes. He’s still barely ever flown.

Harry holds out his hand. Zayn glances at it, then up at Harry, his eyes big through his lashes. 

“Told you you could hold my hand,” Harry replies, teasing as gently as he can. He’s doing it more to amuse Zayn than anything, try to get him to forget maybe for a second why they’re there, but Zayn sighs with his whole body, then reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

Harry can’t help his gasp as their palms meet. They’re holding hands. He’s holding hands with Zayn, really holding hands, like Zayn’s getting comfort out of the touch and his palms are warm and calloused and Harry’s palms are probably getting sweaty and gross.

Zayn tugs as if he’s taking his hand back. “If you were joking—”

“No!” Harry tightens his hold. He’s not letting Zayn go, if Zayn needs this. “No, it’s fine.”

Zayn snorts at that, but it’s not a laugh at all. Harry winces. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” The plane jostles, and Zayn’s fingers clench around Harry’s. Harry doesn’t flinch at that, he’s pretty proud, even though Zayn’s got a good grip. But he doesn’t know what to say to that. What to say to Zayn at all, because what does he know of this? Of a father being afraid for their child? The worst that’s happened to Harry is when Gemma broke her leg when she was ten, and he’d thought that was cool more than anything.

“I just—what if something’s happened already? What if I turn my phone on, and—fuck,” Zayn swears. All Harry can see is his profile as he stares at his knees, and it looks like it could be carved from marble, beautiful and stark. “I know it’s stupid, I know this is pretty minor.” He shakes his head. His hair’s started to fall out of its ponytail, but it doesn’t seem like he minds. “What if something happens to her? I couldn’t—I don’t know what I’d do.”

Harry still doesn’t know what to say, so he squeezes Zayn’s hand tight. “It’ll be okay,” he says. It’s stupid, but Zayn squeezes back, so it must have helped somewhat.

Five minutes later, they’re on the ground, and Zayn lets go of Harry’s hand to get up. It feels colder without him, even though Harry’s right, his hand was getting sweaty. He wipes it quickly on his jeans and pulls up his hood as Zayn leads the way out of the plane.

Harry asked for a car, so it’s waiting to bring them to the hospital. Hopefully that’s enough to keep them anonymous; there certainly aren’t any crowds at the hospital when they get out. It’s more anonymous than Harry’s been in a while, it feels like, and Harry intends to keep it that way, so he walks quickly towards the hospital doors. He’s a few meters up the walk before he realizes Zayn isn’t next to him, or even his usual pace behind him, and looks back.

He’s standing just outside the car, looking up at the hospital with eyes as big as his face. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, but he’s biting at his lower lip hard enough it looks like it might hurt. Harry just wants to soothe it away, wants to be able to tease the lip out of Zayn’s mouth with his own, but he can’t. So instead he turns around, and walks back.

“Zayn?” Zayn blinks, and his gaze refocuses on Harry, like he’s pulling out of his own head. Somehow, Harry’s hand is on his waist, and Zayn curls in, his head almost hiding in Harry’s shoulder. If they were—if things were different, if Harry was allowed, he’d pull him in, let Zayn lean on him for once. Instead, he just tightens his hold on Zayn’s waist, and Zayn’s hand is on his hip, like a reaction. “Are you going to be okay?”

Harry can feel Zayn’s deep breath, ragged in his throat. But then he straightens, and steps back, dragging a hand over his face as Harry’s hand falls back down to his side. “I’ll do what I have to. Always do, yeah?”

He heads into the hospital, and this time it’s Harry who’s a step behind.

It takes them a few steps of asking people, but they find their way to the children’s ward, and Zayn hurries up to the desk.

“Yes?” The nurse on duty, an older woman with her hair pulled into a messy bun and a frazzled expression on a face that might have been pretty once, before all the worry lines had set in.

“What room is Laela Malik in?” Zayn asks, without a salutation. Harry tugs his hood on more over his head. The problem with waiting rooms like this is that there are a couple twelve year olds sitting around who very well could be fans.

The nurse glances at her computer. “Are you family?”

“I’m her dad,” Zayn replies, “I need—she’s here, right?”

“Mm-hm,” the nurse nods, and goes back to her screen. “Let me just check…looks like she’s scheduled for surgery in an hour, she should be getting prepped soon. Room 301, you can go on back.” She surprises Harry by smiling, and Harry was right, she is pretty. “She’s a sweet girl, and she’s been very brave. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Zayn says, and then he’s off. Harry follows after him before the nurse can ask if he’s family, down the white halls with their brightly painted flower designs on the walls. The door to room 301 is open, and Zayn stops in front of it.

There are two people inside, a girl on the bed and a woman in one of the chairs next to her, who Harry knows from pictures is Zayn’s mother. The girl looks to be asleep, but Mrs. Malik looks up when Zayn stops, and her face breaks into a smile that looks just like her son’s at the sight of him.

“Zayn!” she whispers, sort of like she’d be yelling if she could, and gets up. “I didn’t think you’d be able to come, you should have told me.”

“Didn’t have time.” She pulls him into a hug, almost like Harry wanted to, and Zayn folds in so he can lean on her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her and one of her hands stroking over his head.

“She’ll be fine,” she murmurs, just loud enough for Harry to hear. He should leave, should go back to the waiting room. But he doesn’t want to leave while Zayn might still need him. Which means he should go in, but he doesn’t want to do that either, doesn’t want to intrude. So he settles on hovering in the doorway, watching Zayn huddled in his mother’s arms. “Shh, love. You’re okay.”

Zayn holds her tight for a moment more, then he steps back, holds her at arm’s length. “You should go home. Get some rest.”

“Don’t be silly.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m waiting.”

“You’ve been up all night.”

“Your father was here for some of it. We took turns sleeping.”

“So neither of you slept?”

She snorts, another sound like Zayn’s. “Shush, you.”

Zayn doesn’t laugh, but he sounds a little less watery when he replies. “Go home. I’ll let you know if anything happens.” Harry can’t see his face, but he can see the set of his back, the stubborn tilt of his chin. “You don’t have to do this part for me too.”

She looks like she wants to say something, but instead she just lifts her hand to his cheek, cupping it gently. “There’s no have,” she tells him, “I—”

“Baba?” the high, childish voice comes from the bed, and Zayn pulls away from his mother’s hand to drop into the chair she was sitting next to.

“Hey, jaan,” he murmurs, his voice achingly soft and loving and Harry shouldn’t be thinking about himself now, but he wants Zayn to turn a voice with that much love in it on him. “How you feeling?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“I know. But we’re fixing that, right?”

There’s a motion on the bed like a nod. “Daadi said you weren’t going to be able to be here.”

“You know I’d never leave you alone for this.” Zayn’s hands on her hair now, stroking gently like his mother did to him. Harry’s never seen him look so soft.

“She said I was going to have to be brave, that you’d be proud of me.” Something in the tone of voice makes Harry think she’s pointing a glare at her grandmother, who’s hovering behind Zayn.

“I’m always proud of you, brave or not,” Zayn replies, “You know that.”

Another nod. Then, so quietly Harry can barely hear her. “I’m scared, baba.”

“I know, Lae.” From his voice, you’d never know he’d been sitting broken on the floor six hours ago; that he hadn’t slept in probably days, that he had been holding Harry’s hand tight enough to break it. “But you’re going to be okay. It’s going to be like going to sleep, and then when you wake up it’ll all be better.”

“Promise?” her voice quavers, but Zayn’s is sure when he answers.

“Promise.”

Harry can’t stand here anymore, with Zayn and the child who’s only now become real to him, an actual little girl who matters most to Zayn in all the world. He steps back, away from the family there, and heads back to the waiting room.

Zayn’s mom comes out a few minutes later. She scans the room, finds him in the corner he’s claimed, and smiles tiredly. “Do you want to come back to the house?” she asks. Her voice is nothing like her son’s except in accent, but it’s a nice voice. Settling. “You could get some rest there. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Harry glances at the door, the door behind which he knows Zayn is still sitting with his daughter. He should go back, go indoors where no one can see him, not stay here where people could recognize him wherever and he’s probably distracting Zayn from more important worries and also he is exposed, if whoever’s trying to kill him knows he’s here. But—“Is Zayn staying?” he asks.

She nods, her smile rueful but fond. “Not going to leave her side until he has to,” she confirms.

“I’ll stay with him, then.”

She nods, like she didn’t expect anything else. “Tell him I’ll be back later. And—thank you.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m just glad we got here in time.”

“Me too.” There’s that smile again, same as her son’s. Then she leaves, and Harry’s alone again.

The waiting room is cheerful, at least. Bright colors, kids playing with toys, Tangled on a TV screen that Harry half-pays attention to. And it’s an anonymous place, too. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their own worry, their own fear, to look around and notice him, and even if they did who would expect Harry Styles to be in a Bradford pediatrics ward?

He checks his phone, just in case, but there aren’t any mentions of him on Gawker, and he’s not trending on twitter, so he figures he’s safe for now. There’s a little girl playing with a dump truck on the floor a little ways away from him, at the feet of a tired-looking woman with greying hair and sagging jowls. But the girl’s happy, chortling to herself as she drags the truck back and forth. Harry wishes he could still do that.

Zayn comes out a little while later. Like his mom, he scans the room, finds Harry, but then he collapses into the chair next to him. “Thought you’d have gone with mum,” he says. Harry gives him a pointed look back.

“I’m not leaving you alone here.”

Zayn smiles, soft and tired. “Thanks.” He does a quick scan of the room. “You’d be safer at mine, though.”

“Not leaving you alone,” Harry repeats, and nudges Zayn’s shoulder with his own for emphasis. “You don’t leave people alone in hospitals. It’s not right.”

“Yeah.” Zayn looks down at his hands, flips them over. “She’s in surgery. They said I could watch, but…”

Harry hums his agreement. He still doesn’t know what to say, how to make things better. But no one is looking at him, and he really doesn’t care if they are. So he takes Zayn’s hand again, interlaces their fingers, and smiles as encouragingly as he can at Zayn. “Need to be distracted?”

“Don’t know if I can be.” Zayn’s grip is tight, and his palms are sweaty. There’s something comforting about that little awkwardness.

“Well, have you heard about my plans for the new video? Ben thinks I should be in the desert, and I’m not sure why but I think there’s a monkey involved? I’d like that part, though. I think monkeys and I would get along. We both like bananas, so that’d be a point of commonality…” Harry keeps talking, about nothing at all really. Just saying whatever he can so Zayn can maybe not think about what’s happening in that other room, and he thinks it’s helping because Zayn holds tight to his hand for the long hour they wait, talking and watching the little girl and her dump truck.

Finally, “Malik?” the nurse calls, and Zayn bolts to his feet. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“Yes?”

 She gives him that weary smile. “Your daughter’s out of surgery. She’s fine.” Zayn lets out a long breath. That’s his only reaction, but it seems like something drains out of him, some sort of tension that leaves the hand holding Harry’s looser. Harry keeps his grip tight, though. He doesn’t want to let go yet. “The doctor will be around in a few minutes, but you can go see her now, if you want.” She gives their joined hands a look. “Both of you can.”

“Oh, he’s not—”

“Thanks.” Harry gives the nurse the biggest grin he can, out of relief and to distract and just because he can. “I’m recommending this hospital to all my friends. Five star review!”

Her smile turns less tired. “Well that’s a relief,” is all she says, though, and heads back to the desk.

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to look at their joined hands. His grip’s almost entirely gone, but he doesn’t say anything about how Harry’s keeping them together. “You don’t have to come—I know hospitals aren’t, like, everyone’s thing, and this probably isn’t how you want to meet her.”

“Of course I’m coming! I mean, if you want.” Harry gets up too. Zayn’s swaying, he notices vaguely. Whether from adrenaline or relief or exhaustion. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Zayn shrugs, but his grip tightens again. “If you want to.”

If someone in this hospital knows who he is, there’s going to be so much fallout from this, Harry thinks, and ignores it to go with Zayn out of the waiting room down to Laela’s room.

She’s asleep, and very very still on her bed, but Zayn’s face lights up when he sees her, somehow even more beautiful than usual.

“There,” Harry whispers. He’s not sure why he’s whispering, but he feels like he should, and it feels right to lean into Zayn, to keep him close. “Told you she’d be fine.”

“Shut up,” Zayn retorts, but it’s weak. “Just—shut up.”

\---

Harry watches from a chair he pulled up in the corner as the doctor talks to Zayn, but when a girl he recognizes as Zayn’s older sister shows up, and Laela starts to stir, he decides it’s probably time to leave Zayn to his family, and says as much, putting a hand on Zayn’s shoulder to let him know.

Zayn tips his head back. He’s got bags under his eyes the size of Australia, and they’re bloodshot like he’s been smoking up, but he’s smiling too, almost glowing. “Yeah, you probably want sleep. Um. My mum should be home—” Doniya nods. “I can’t—I should go with you, but—”

He gives Laela a helpless, pleading look, and Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, of course you’re staying here. I’ll be fine. I can manage a cab ride on my own.”

“But—”

“No one knows I’m here. We won’t tell Paul.” Zayn still looks doubtful, so Harry glares at him. “I’m your boss, and I’m ordering you to stay with your daughter. There. Problem solved. Now what’s your address?”

It’s Doniya who reels it off, because Zayn’s just staring at him almost blankly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s uncomfortable, but in a different way than Harry usually feels when Zayn looks at him. He’s learned not to squirm when Zayn looks at him like he can see through him, learned to resist the urge to strip off all his clothes when Zayn’s gaze might almost be hot and focused, but this simple look of—of, Harry almost wants to call it awe, or amazement—makes him want to blush, to blush and hide or maybe just ask Zayn to explain it so he can make sure he deserves it.

“Stay here as long as you need,” he gets out instead, squeezing Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine at yours.”

\---

He gets there no problem, at least. The girl who opens the door—Safaa, he guesses, from the pictures and her age—gives him a wide-eyed, starstruck look and a squeak, but then her mother shoos her away back upstairs, and gives him a smile that’s much less tired than before.

“Come in, come in,” she urges. The house is small, especially for the five people living there, but it’s nice. Homey, is the word that comes to mind, lots of warm rich colors and the evidence of girls of all ages scattered everywhere and pictures on the walls and the rich scent of something coming from somewhere. It’s the sort of place Harry can see Zayn growing up in, coming back to. The sort of place with history, with roots. He’s never really had one of those, but he recognizes it when he sees it. “You probably want some sleep, if you’ve anything like Zayn’s sleeping patterns.”

“I wouldn’t mind a nap,” Harry admits, grinning invitingly. He wants her to like him. If only so she shows him baby pictures of Zayn. “Unless I can help somehow?”

“No, nothing to do here. You can—well, Safaa and Waliyha can share, and then you can have Wali’s room. It’s—”

“The couch is fine,” Harry interrupts. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“You’re the guest, we can’t—”

“Or I can get a hotel, if that’s—”

“Don’t be silly. You got Zayn here, the least we can do is put you up for a few nights.”

Harry gives a sheepish smile. “A hotel won’t put me out much, really.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” She gives him one of the hard looks all mothers seem to learn, then sighs. “Well, for now, you can nap in Zayn’s room. I can’t imagine he’ll be back any time soon.”

“We can argue about me not disturbing you later,” Harry agrees, flashing his dimples, and she laughs.

“Don’t give me any of that. Zayn’s room’s the first one on the left upstairs, you can go on up.”

“Thanks.” He gives her another winning smile, then follows her directions upstairs. 

Zayn’s room has the sort of tidiness of a room that’s not used often but is still kept ready for use. He has a poster of Batman on one wall, a bookshelf on the other, the whole bottom shelf taken up by textbooks. The desk is covered in papers that clearly his mum didn’t feel like tackling, a bunch of loose-leaf and a few notebooks bound like sketchpads. It’s a nice room. A very Zayn sort of room, even if it’s not filled with embarrassing teenaged posters, one that’s still clearly his, not like Harry’s room in his mum’s house that his mum’s basically turned into a gym at this point.

A very good sort of room, Harry thinks, and falls onto the bed and is asleep almost before he can realize the bed smells like Zayn.

\---

He only sleeps for a few hours, because his body’s not used to spending long times asleep while on tour. So he spends the rest of the day in the Malik’s house, helping out with whatever he can and talking to the various members of the family who cycle through. There’s Safaa, who seems to have gotten over her initial shyness to drill him about all the celebrities he’s met with a teenager’s naïve stubbornness. He attempts to help her with her homework, too, but gives it up as a bad job when she just laughs at him. Waliyha’s around for most of the day too, but she’s quieter, either from shyness or from temperament; he mainly catches her in glimpses as she goes from one room to the next, with only a quick hi before she runs away. It’s not the first time Harry’s been treated like that, because he knows his fame can be intimidating even if he’s not at all, so he just smiles his least scary smile and hopes she comes around to him eventually.

Trisha’s there at first, and when he sees she’s baking he joins her, tries and fails not to get in her way as he listens to her recipes and tells her about his short tenure as a baker. She’s warm in a way that’s irresistible, brisker than Harry’s mum in how she moves and feeds him, but still the sort of person Harry wants to curl up next to and tell all his secrets. She barely even gives him a knowing look when he asks about Zayn, which means she’s nice, too, because Harry’s certain he’s being obvious, and brings out the baby albums. That gets Safaa and even Waliyha out too, to look over their shoulder as he sees a big eyed, chubby cheeked Zayn grin at the camera and hug his sisters.

Trisha goes to the hospital after a while, and Harry calls Paul to check in and reads for a while, does some magazine quizzes with Safaa. Doniya stops in, and Harry likes her too, how she’s sharper than her mother and her brother both, narrow eyed and a bit warier of Harry’s enthusiasm. But Harry knows plenty of people like her too, who think he can’t be nice without wanting something (they’re right, of course, to an extent, because he does want something. He wants Zayn’s family to like him, wants to fit into every part of Zayn’s life that he can), so he asks her about her work and her husband and Laela until she’s rolling her eyes fondly at him like Zayn does sometimes.

Yasser comes home for a bit after work. He’s harder to read, has the same stillness that struck Harry the first time he saw Zayn—a calm pool in a forest, he thinks, as the chaos of all his daughters and wife erupts around him. It’s not stupidity, or thickness, though, and that’s obvious by the piercing way he looks at Harry, like Zayn does, like he can see through him. Harry’s sure to give him his best handshake, look him in the eye. He can’t actually say he’ll take care of his son and that his intentions are honorable, because it can’t be like that, but he tries to communicate it best he can, and he thinks Yasser gets it because he gives Harry a firm handshake back and a nod before he goes into his room.

“He’s always like that,” Waliyha tells Harry, when she sees Harry watching Yasser’s back. He hadn’t said anything—was that a problem? Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it that sounds a bit like Gemma’s whenever she was her most playful. “He intimidates all our boyfriends.”  

“Oh! I’m not—”

“I didn’t say you were,” she retorts. When she smiles, her resemblance to Zayn only comes out more.

“You’re mean,” he shoots back, sticking out his tongue, and she laughs. Well, at least he got her comfortable, he thinks, even if he did basically admit what everyone already knew.

Zayn doesn’t get home until even later, after basically everyone else has already gone to bed, and Harry’s just hanging out in Zayn’s room. Harry’s not entirely sure how he managed it, given that visiting hours are probably long over, but maybe the nurses were seduced by the power of his cheekbones, Harry doesn’t know. What he does know, is that Zayn looks utterly exhausted, and he doesn’t even bother turning on a light when he walks in, just blinks like Harry doesn’t compute when he sees him reading on his bed by the bedside light.

“I’m sharing with you,” Harry explains, matter of factly as he can. He’s shared beds before, platonically. It’s fine. “I didn’t want to make Safaa and Waliyha share, and your mom wouldn’t let me take the couch, so I thought this would be okay?”

“What?” Zayn blinks again, and sighs. “Yeah, ‘s fine.”

 He more falls onto the bed than sits down, and Harry scoots over so he has room. “When was the last time you slept?” he demands. Zayn shrugs.

“I think I’ve grabbed a minute here and there.”

“Zayn,” Harry scolds, “I know you’ve had time to sleep. Laela must have been out of it, you could have slept too.”

“I—” Zayn shakes his head. He takes a long breath, then all of him slumps, so his head’s buried in his hands, with his elbows on his knees. “I can’t. I just…”

He trails off, and he just looks so tired, so drained, so defeated, that Harry has to put an arm around his shoulder, pull him closer. For a second, Zayn tenses—then he sort of collapses into Harry. “God, I’m just—she could have died.”

“But she didn’t!” Harry points out. Zayn’s hair is in his face when he turns, and he’s warm and solid against Harry, and he really shouldn’t be thinking any of this but he can’t not when Zayn’s basically sitting in his lap. “She’s fine, Zayn. Right? Trisha said she was fine.”

“She is, but—she could have died. And I’d just been saying all that shit about how I regret having her, and how I’d be better off without her, and I didn’t mean it, not really, but she could have—” his shoulders are shaking, and Harry’s not sure if he’s crying or just exhausted but the pain in his voice makes Harry ache, and for the third time Harry doesn’t know what to say, he just knows he needs to make it better.

“She’s fine,” he repeats, and because his head’s there, because he can’t not, he brushes a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head. It’s a friend thing, this. A friend thing, a comfort thing, because everyone’s cheered up by kisses, right? It’s totally a friend thing to kiss Zayn’s head in the dark of his room, to wrap his arms around him and hold him like Harry could be enough to keep him here. “She’s fine, and you never said you’d be better off without her, just that having a baby that young wasn’t ideal, which makes sense. You love her, and she knows that, and she’s fine.” He kisses Zayn’s hair again, inhales the scent of his shampoo.

“But what if she wasn’t?” Zayn lifts his face. There are tears caught in his eyelashes, and his face is drawn and white. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to her. I don’t care about me, but her…”

“Nothing’s going to.” Now there’s more than just Zayn’s hair to kiss, so Harry brushes his lips over Zayn’s forehead, his cheeks. It’s comfort. Harry would be doing this to Niall, if it would help him in crisis. It’s just reassurance, and so it’s allowed. “You won’t let it. You’re the best father ever, and she knows that, and nothing’s going to happen to her.”

Harry doesn’t exactly know how it happens. Maybe he leans down more, maybe Zayn turns his head—all he knows is that their lips meet, and then they’re kissing.

It’s not what Harry expected—what he might have dreamed about, spun daydreams on long bus rides watching Zayn read, drunk in cars with Zayn so close and so far. He’d thought their first kiss would be wild, desperate, all the need that’s pent up in him. Maybe at a bar, with Harry flirting with someone else and Zayn pulling him away, mad with jealousy. Maybe after a show, when Harry was reckless with adrenaline.

But not this, in the darkness of Zayn’s childhood room, with tearstreaks on Zayn’s face and desperate exhaustion in all his limbs. Not this quiet, gentle thing, Zayn’s hand on his neck drawing him in, one of his hands on Zayn’s cheek. There’s no hurry, no rush, no desperation, just comfort, in whatever way Harry can give it, his lips taking over where his hands have failed. Comfort in the slow, soft move of their lips, in how Zayn’s lips and hands still burn on Harry’s skin.

He doesn’t know how long they kiss like that, how long Harry loses in Zayn. But he does know that eventually, he realizes where they are, what they’re doing, and how late it is, and he breaks away as gently as he knows how. Zayn’s eyes are still closed, his eyelashes long and dark over his cheeks, and Harry wants nothing more than to lay him out on the bed and give him comfort with his body too, to make Zayn happy again even if just for a moment. To take everything Harry’s wanted for these past months, to test the muscles quivering beneath Zayn’s skin.

But he really can’t. And even if he could, now wouldn’t be the time, with Zayn probably half-hallucinating from exhaustion. So Harry doesn’t take Zayn up on the temptation that is his still-parted lips. “Zayn,” he says, “You’ve got to sleep.”

“Mm?” Zayn hums, and Harry laughs, pushes Zayn gently back down onto the bed.

“Get some sleep,” he orders him. “You’re no good to anyone exhausted.”

Zayn nods, his eyes still closed, and, as far as Harry can tell, he’s asleep in the next second.

Harry gives himself a second to just look at him, to remember the pressure of Zayn’s lips on his. Then he gets up. He takes off Zayn’s shoes, gets him under the covers as well as he can—which, apparently, is pretty well, because Zayn’s sleeping like the dead. It’s not entirely comforting, thinking about Zayn sleeping like this when the whole point of him being in the same suite as Harry is if he needs to wake up, but maybe it’s just because he hasn’t slept in seventy-two hours—then strips off his own shirt and jeans and lies back down, as far from Zayn as he can without falling off the bed.

It doesn’t much help, because he can still hear Zayn’s breath, can still feel the heat of his body under the blankets with Harry, can still feel the phantom of their lips meeting. What’s it like, to care about someone so much he almost breaks at the mere thought of them hurt? Harry’s not sure he’s ever loved someone like that. It sounds terrifying.

It takes him a long, long time to get to sleep.

\---

Zayn must have gotten up sometime before Harry, because he’s certain Zayn was dressed when he went to bed but Harry wakes up to a bare leg thrown over his and an arm on his chest. Harry opens his eyes, mainly to make sure he’s not dreaming—then immediately closes them again. He doesn’t think he’s dreaming, but he doesn’t think he can handle Zayn’s face bathed in the morning sunlight, with it caught in eyelashes and turning his skin golden. His hair’s loose around his face like Harry’s only seen a few times before, a dark contrast to his white sheets, and it’s more than Harry can handle this early, especially when it also comes with Zayn’s breath on his shoulder and the warmth of him. But it’s nice with his eyes closed and Zayn so close. Harry could imagine waking up like this every day, to the soft sounds of Zayn’s breath and maybe Laela running in to wake them up. Or maybe Harry sneaking out of bed with Laela, so they don’t wake up Zayn; making breakfast to serve to Zayn in bed; kissing Zayn’s forehead before he leaves to go to an early rehearsal.

Before Harry can sink too far into his daydreams and maybe get himself too interested in how Zayn’s skin feels against his, he eases his way out of bed. Zayn doesn’t move as he grabs clothes from his bag, as he heads to the shower Trisha had showed him yesterday. It’s not as early as he thought, he realizes as he hears the sound of someone moving around downstairs, and glances out the bathroom window. Tour gets to him like that, sometimes. He just hopes he didn’t miss anything they needed help with.

He showers quickly, his usual tour in-and-out, then ties his hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of the way. He dumps the dirty towel back in Zayn’s room—he can figure out what he should do with it later. Zayn’s moved in his sleep, curled up on his side, and Harry leaves before he succumbs to sliding back into bed and pretending he didn’t wake up so he can be there when Zayn wakes up.

Downstairs, Trisha is the only one around, but she’s got what looks like enough batter to feed an army. Which might be only just enough, Harry thinks, considering the number of people here.

“Need help?” he asks. He realizes a beat too late she might not have noticed he’d come in, but if she’s surprised she doesn’t show it, just turns her head to give him a grateful smile.

“No, everything’s under control here.”

Harry puts on his wheedling voice. “Really? I’m an excellent pancake flipper.”

She laughs. “Zayn’s told me enough about you that I doubt that.”

“Lies,” Harry pouts. But—Zayn talks about him? Zayn tells his mother enough about Harry that she knows how clumsy he is? Zayn kissed Harry last night—and Harry’s not thinking about that with Zayn’s mother in the room. Not when he doesn’t know what it meant to Zayn, if it meant anything more than needing comfort from whoever was there. “But really, what can I do?”

“Hmm…” She surveys the spread, hand on her hip. “You could see if Laela’s awake, see if she needs anything.”

“Laela’s here?” Harry demands.

Trisha’s head tilts, and her confused look is almost like Zayn’s, just a bit less wry. “She was discharged early this morning, we went and got her. Did Zayn not wake you up?”

That explained why Zayn had gotten out of bed, at least. “No. But I’m a heavy sleeper. I’ll go see!” Harry salutes, and she rolls her eyes at him as he leaves the kitchen. He’s so in with Zayn’s family. He has always been good at getting adopted.

“Last door on the right,” Trisha calls after him.

“Thanks!” He follows her instructions upstairs, past the bedroom where Zayn’s still sleeping. The door labeled LAELA in a sign with letters made up of glittery, computer-rendered letters that are probably a five-year-old’s dream is closed, but when Harry eases it open, Laela’s eyes are open and they blink up at him from the bed.

“Hi,” Harry says quietly as he shuts the door. She doesn’t look entirely awake yet, and she might be on some sort of drugs to keep her like that. “I’m just making sure you’re feeling okay.”

She nods, gaze still wary. “My tummy hurts. But it hurts less.”

“That’s good.” Harry pauses, but she seems awake, and this is his first time meeting her. So he moves closer slowly enough that if she looks nervous he can stop and go get Trisha. But she just keeps looking at him curiously.

Her resemblance to Zayn is unmistakable, but she’s…browner than Zayn, is what Harry thinks. Her eyes a few shades darker, her hair a few shades lighter, her skin a little darker. She’s probably the prettiest little girl Harry’s ever seen, (or maybe tied with Lux), in Harry’s completely unbiased opinion. And the fearless way she looks at Harry only makes her more charming.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, sitting down on the chair positioned next to her bed.

She nods certainly. “You’re Harry. Baba makes sure the bad guys don’t get you.”

Harry nods, smiling. It’s the best way he’s heard Zayn’s job described. “That’s right.”

“It’s because baba’s a hero, Uncle Liam says,” she explains, like Harry doesn’t know this already. “It’s why he can’t stay with me all the time because he’s got to go keep other people safe. But he loves me best all the time.”

“He does,” Harry agrees. God. It almost hurts, how cute she is. How matter of fact she is about it. “I wanted to thank you, though. For letting me borrow him for a while.”

Her nose wrinkles. “You can’t borrow people!” she objects.

Harry tries very hard not to smile, to take her seriously. “You’re right. Maybe I want to thank you for being such a big girl you don’t need him, so he can come be my hero.”

She grins, and it’s almost an exact copy of Zayn’s grin, the one that takes up his whole face and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’re welcome,” she says, very politely. “But I’m still most important.”

“Of course,” Harry confirms. He looks at the stuffed horse in her lap. “Who’s that?”

“This is Glinda!” she exclaims, and Harry would hug her if it wouldn’t freak her out completely.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a yell from downstairs. “Where’s my Laela?” the voice calls. It’s not one Harry really recognizes, but when there’s thumping on the stairs and the door swings open, interrupting Harry and Laela’s game, he recognizes Louis, with Liam right over his shoulder. “Where’s my best girl?”

“Uncle Louis!” She yells, and holds out her arms. Louis doesn’t hesitate, just charges over to wrap her in a hug. Harry would object—she just had an operation, after all—but despite the noise Louis’s gentle when he hugs her. And also, Harry reminds himself, he doesn’t have any right to object to anything.

Laela hugs him back, then looks over his shoulder. “Uncle Liam!”

“Hey, baby.” Liam smiles, and gives her his own hug. “How you feeling?”

“I’m sick,” she tells him. “Or I was. Now I’m better, but I still have to lie here and be bored.”

“Hey!” Harry objects. He didn’t think they’d been bored with their game. “Am I boring?”

“Not _now_ ,” she replies, all condescension. “Before.”

“Oh, of course.” Harry meets Louis’s gaze over her head, and Louis’s lips twitch into a smile.

“So what are you doing now?” he asks, glancing at the stuffed animals on the bed.

“We’re puppies,” she tells him. “We’ve been kidnapped and now we’re in a tower and we’re stuck there.”

“Puppies? Not princesses?”

Laela gives Liam the same patronizing look she gave Harry. “We’re puppy princesses.”

“Then who am I? Am I…the evil dragon who’s kidnapped you?” Louis laughs manically, and bounces on the bed.

“No!” Laela giggles.

“Are you sure?” he demands, “I bet I could kidnap you now!” he threatens, and holds out his fingers like he’s going to tickle her. “No one to save you!”

“No! Uncle Louis!” she laughs, waving at him. “No, you can be a puppy too!”

“Lame.” Louis drops his arms, crossing them over his chest. “And who’s Liam, then?”

“Liam is going to go see if your baba’s awake,” Liam replies dryly. “You keep an eye on them, okay?” he tells Laela, who nods seriously, before he leaves.

“Can I be the knight who beats the bad guys and saves the puppy princesses?” Louis asks, turning back to Laela.

Harry snorts. “The puppy princesses can save themselves.” 

“Usually,” Louis allows, nodding like he’s conceding a point. “But maybe they want to see if their knight can save them, first. Before they get around to saving themselves.”

“You can’t be the knight,” Laela interrupts them. Clearly feminism is not big on her radar. “Baba has to be the one who saves us, because he’s our hero, right Harry?”

She puts a little hand on his arm, and Harry just melts. He thinks he’s falling as hard and fast for this girl as he did for her father. “Right.” He knows his grin is horribly sappy, but he can’t help it, not when she’s looking at him like he’s the one whose opinion she needs.

Then Louis lets out a long breath, and Harry’s reminded that there is an adult in the room who can actually read between some lines. He glances up—Louis’ giving him a look beneath raised eyebrows, skeptical and wary but not mean, exactly. “Interesting,” is all he says, though, before they get back to the serious discussion of how exactly the puppy princesses spend their days in the tower and whether or not it makes sense for them to eat only cake, or if cookies should also be an option.

\---

“So, let me see the scar,” Louis demands, after the puppy princess game has gotten boring. “I bet mine’s bigger.”

“Nu-uh!” Laela objects. She pulls up her shirt, to reveal the neat, tiny line of stitches on her stomach.

“Wow, that is pretty big,” Louis says admiringly. “But look at this.” He tugs down the collar of his shirt, points to a barely-there mark right below his collarbone. “Way cooler.”

“Nope!”

“Yep!”

“Nope!”

“Yep!”

“Nope!”

“My mate could beat you both,” Harry interrupts. This has the feeling of an argument that could go on forever. “He’s got one on his knee that’s this big!” he holds his fingers out to show how big Niall’s scar is.

Laela’s eyes go wide. “Really? Why?”

“He needed surgery—like you. To fix it so he didn’t hurt all the time.”

“Ohhhh.” She nods sympathetically and knowledgably. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Yeah. But he didn’t complain much.”

“Did he have to lie in bed and be bored too?”

“He did. But he whined about it a lot more than you.” It’s not entirely fair to Niall—Harry hadn’t really been there for the recuperation, because he had been on tour and Niall had plenty of people to look after him so Harry didn’t actually know if he complained much—but it can’t hurt.

“Is he your best friend?” Laela demands. “My best friend is Carrie.”

“Not me?” Louis gasps, mock-offended.

“Fine.” She sighs. “But then baba’s my best friend. And then you and uncle Liam. And Carrie.”

“What’s Carrie like?”

“She’s amazing. She’s got the coolest hair.” Laela makes a face. “It’s red. It’s not boring like mine.”

“Don’t be silly,” Louis snaps, but Harry nods.

“Red’s cool. But brown’s pretty awesome too.” He runs a hand over her hair. “It’s the prettiest, in my opinion.”

“Not black?” Louis inserts. Harry doesn’t react, just keeps looking at Laela.

“And,” he adds, “I’ve got a lot of friends who are known for being really pretty, and most of them have brown hair.”

“Really?” she asks, awed. “Like who?”

Harry can’t think of anyone she knows offhand. Except, maybe, “Do you know the Kardashians?” he asks, and Louis makes a sound like he’s about to die. But Laela nods.

“They’re on TV. Aunt Doni says their show is stupid.”

“Okay, yeah. But one of them was my girlfriend once, and she had brown hair, and she was one of the prettiest people I ever knew.”

“Really? Do I look like her?”

“No.” Harry goes on before her face can fall. “You’re even prettier.”

“I am?”

“Of course.” Harry spins. Zayn’s standing in the doorway, Liam behind him. The sight of him hits Harry all at once, in his jeans and t-shirt with his hair loose around his face down to his chin, his lips curved into the smile he only gets around his family. “Prettiest girl I know.”

“Baba,” Laela whines. “You’ve got to think that.”

“Doesn’t make it not true,” Liam inserts.

“Yeah, aren’t I always right?” Zayn asks. He’s moving forward, and Harry knows it’s towards Laela but that means it’s also towards Harry. Harry makes to get up out of his chair, but Zayn just sits down on the bed next to Laela. It means he’s awfully close to Harry, their knees brushing. Not as close as they were last night, but still, close.

“No, that’s daadi,” Laela informs him. Zayn chuckles.

“Fair enough. But you’re still the prettiest girl I know.” He pauses, then, “And the bravest.”

She grins toothily, beaming up at her father. “I only cried a little, even though it hurt.”

“Better than I could have done,” Harry inserts. He makes a face when she gives him an incredulous look. “I’m not very brave.”

“Sure you are,” Zayn replies, easy as breathing. Harry tries not to beam at him, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

“Nah, that’s what I keep you around for,” he retorts, though, and Louis snorts.

“That the—”

“Are you feeling better?” Zayn inserts smoothly, elbowing Louis in the side. If it was meant to distract Harry, it does the opposite. What was Louis going to say? He understands Louis teasing him, because his crush is the most obvious thing in the world, but then why would Zayn cut him off? “Have a good nap?”

“Yep! Did you?” she asks, then goes on before Zayn can answer. “Harry and I were playing puppy princesses.”

“Oh?” Zayn asks, with the sort of sangfroid that comes from having played every iteration of princesses before. “What are you doing in the tower today?”

“We’re fighting a dragon,” Laela tells him excitedly. “Except now you’re awake so you have to come help save us.”

“You need my help? I thought you were the most magical.”

“I am,” Laela agrees. Harry bites his lip to keep from smiling, as do the rest of the adults in the room. “But you’re a hero, so you have to keep us safe. Right?” She gives her father big, entreating eyes, as good as anything Harry’s ever done. “That’s what Harry said you do, because you’re our hero, right? You keep us safe so we never have to worry.”

Three pairs of eyes go to Harry. If Harry hadn’t spent the last five years in front of cameras, he’d be blushing, showing the way he wants to squirm under Zayn’s steady, questioning gaze. He hadn’t—well, no, he’d meant it like that when he said it, but somehow it sounds both more innocent and less in Laela’s fluting child’s voice. Nothing sexual in it at all, but there’s so much love in her look at Zayn that it’s like she’s lumping Harry in with it too.

But Harry’s been interviewed for years, and this isn’t the first time he’s been put on a spot. “Right, Zayn?” he echoes, grinning like it’s a joke. “Won’t you save us from the dragons?”

Zayn’s not smiling, he’s just looking at Harry still, like he’s looking through him. “Find me a dragon and I’ll slay it,” he promises, his hand resting on his daughter’s stomach, over the scar. “I promise.”

“Baba,” Laela starts, but then a call comes from downstairs,

“Waffles for everyone who wants them!”

Louis’s on his feet in an instant. “Breakfast!” he announces gleefully. Zayn glances at Laela, whose face is falling, probably at the thought of not getting any because she can’t go downstairs.

“I’ll bring you some,” he says, his face pinching up.

She sticks out her lip. “I want to go downstairs.”

“You’re not allowed to walk, jaan. It’ll make you hurt again.”

“But I wanna go downstairs!” she insists, her lip starting to quiver. Zayn’s look is unimpressed, and Louis seems to be on the edge of laughter, but Harry’s trying to figure out how to move the bed downstairs when, finally, Liam caves.

“Come on, babe.” He leans down, scoops her delicately into his arms, bridal style. “We’ll move you to the couch downstairs, will that be better?”

“Yeah!” she cheers. Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Li—”

“She’s sick!” Liam protests. Laela’s arms are around his neck, and the look she gives her father is triumphant. “I’m allowed to spoil her.”

“Yeah, baba,” Laela agrees. “He can spoil me.”

Zayn’s look is stern, but it softens almost instantly. “Be careful,” he warns.

“Always am!” Liam’s grin is quick and infectious, and then he’s out the door with Laela.

If Harry stayed, he’d be alone with Zayn, probably. And then—well, it’s been easy to not think about anything, about him, while Laela was in the room, while he could just think about her. But without her, when it’s just Zayn there, looking soft and approachable and touchable…Harry can’t think about anything else. Anything other than how his lips felt on Harry’s, the steady pressure of his hand on his neck, how he’d looked at Harry like he was amazing. How he wants nothing more than to do it again.

But Harry’s not brave, is the thing. And yes, Zayn kissed him back, but—but Zayn was really tired, really more like half asleep, and he wasn’t acting any differently towards Harry than usual. Maybe he didn’t remember? Maybe he thought it was a dream? Harry didn’t know.

So instead of cupping his face in his hands and kissing him again, instead of getting his fingers in the soft waves of his hair that Harry’s barely ever seen loose like this—Harry ducks out of the room quickly behind Liam, even getting in front of Louis. Zayn doesn’t stop him.

He does stop Louis, though, and Harry glances behind him to see Zayn wrapping his arms around Louis waist to hug him, to see Louis’s smirk drop away into sheer affection. “You didn’t have to come,” Zayn says, his head tucked against Louis’s cheek.

“Don’t be stupid.” Louis couldn’t hug Zayn back, his arm trapped against his body, but he doesn’t move away, either. “Where else would we be, if she was hurt?”

Harry clatters downstairs before he can hear more. It’s not like he doesn’t have friends, good friends that he trusts with his life. But he doesn’t think he’s ever just leaned on Niall, not like Zayn’s doing on Louis, like he had held onto Liam before they left on tour.

There’s just something so painfully lovely about it, he thinks later, as he comes downstairs after a call with Paul and his agent. Laela’s lying on the couch, her head on Zayn’s lap as he reads to her; Liam’s at her feet, and Louis’s perched on the arm. They’re all listening intently to the story, to Zayn, and Harry’s pretty sure it’s the prettiest picture he’s ever seen.

It’s not his place, Harry knows. But he goes in anyway, sinks down to the floor where he can lean half against the couch and half against Zayn’s legs, and can look up at Zayn to see his face when he reads. Zayn stops reading for a second when Harry sits down, but then Laela makes a discontented sound and he starts again.

Harry closes his eyes, shifts a little so his cheek is on Zayn’s knee. He doesn’t want to stay here forever, not when there’s so much he still hasn’t seen and done, but for the first time in a long time, he thinks he wouldn’t mind staying here a while.

\---

They spend two more days in Bradford. It should be too quiet for Harry, who gets bored in London sometimes, but it’s not. It’s nice, somehow, to breathe, when surrounded by all the chaos of having nine people under a roof not meant to hold that many. Nice to have some time to fiddle around with his guitar and think about new songs, while only sort of watching Zayn and Laela sitting together on the couch, or maybe watching Zayn watch Laela as she and Louis have a very serious discussion about what sounds like dinosaurs. And it’s nice to get to know Laela too, to play princesses and knights and spaceships with her and whoever else she can rope in.

It’s also nice to watch Zayn at home. Maybe it’s a little voyeuristic, but Harry was invited, so he figures it’s all right, to watch him smile at his mom and have her kick him out of the kitchen with a laugh, to watch him banter with his sisters when they try to tell Harry embarrassing stories about Zayn as a teenager that are more adorable than they should be, to watch him and Liam (who actually is a firefighter who moonlights as a bodyguard, in what Louis calls “an overabundance of muscles”) spar in the backyard, both their shirts off and Zayn’s skin glistening with sweat. Harry doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not watching that—everyone is, Zayn’s sisters stealing looks at Liam as Louis laughs at the look on Harry’s face and how Harry excuses himself after they end up tussling on the floor, rolling over and over and Zayn’s laughing and when he gets Liam pinned for a second Harry can’t help but think about how he could pin Harry down.

It’s nice, and it’s quiet, and it’s distracting enough that Harry can almost not think about the kiss. About how Zayn hasn’t been looking at him any differently since it happened, how he still laughs and jokes and touches Harry’s back with the light, burning hand, but he hasn’t brought it up. Harry only really thinks about it at night, when they’re lying next to each other in bed, and it’s impossible not to think about it when he can feel Zayn so close. And when he wakes up, because he wakes up first in the mornings because apparently Zayn sleeps in when he’s not working. Both times they’ve somehow ended up cuddled together, at least some part of them touching, and the only reason Harry has resisted the temptation to just kiss him like that, in the early morning sunshine with his lips pink and gaping open slightly with sleep and his eyelashes curling over his cheeks, is because he’s too afraid Zayn will wake up when he does, and how would he explain that? He’s not allowed. He’s Zayn’s boss, and Zayn—well, Zayn may or may not want him back, but the point is he’s Zayn’s boss and he likes having Zayn as his bodyguard and he doesn’t want to mess that up.

So he doesn’t kiss him, and instead he gets up and goes downstairs, maybe does some yoga in the early morning light outside, then helps Trisha with breakfast. Zayn comes down later, Laela in his arms, and Harry loves the picture that makes, Zayn all soft and sleepy looking with his daughter’s head buried in his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his neck. It’s beautiful, and Harry can’t help thinking about how he wouldn’t mind having that every morning.

But Harry does have a tour to get back to, and fans speculating about where he’s disappeared to, so on the fourth day a driver pulls up to take them back to the airport.

“It was lovely to meet you!” Trisha says, pulling Harry into a hug. Zayn’s talking with Louis and Liam, Laela holding onto his leg. “Next time you’re in the area, you need to stop by.”

“I will,” Harry agrees, hugging her back. He most certainly will. Both to see them, and because he’s not going to make Zayn stay away any longer than he has to. “Thanks for having me.”

“Of course.”

She lets him go, and Yasser holds out his hand. “Good to meet you,” he says, as Harry shakes it. Harry still hasn’t entirely gotten a read on him, but he thinks he likes Harry too. Harry assumes so, at least. Most people do. But his face is serious when he adds, “Watch out for him.”

Harry thinks about protesting that that’s Zayn’s job, actually, but then again, “I will,” he says, and Yasser nods. Harry’s never really met the parents in a relationship, hasn’t been in one long enough for that, but he sort of feels like he passed some sort of test.

“And Harry,” Trisha adds, wrapping an arm around Yasser’s waist. She smiles softly as she speaks. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting him here.”

Harry swallows against the knot in his throat. “Anybody would have,” he demurs. He doesn’t need the way she’s looking at him, like she knows how much it killed him to see Zayn slumped on the floor like that.

She hums, and Yasser raises his eyebrows, but then they’re hugging Zayn, and Harry’s saying good-bye to Louis and Liam. Louis shakes his hand a little too tight, gives him a glare that’s a pretty clear ‘don’t seduce my friend out of a job’ warning, but Liam’s farewell is hearty and well-meaning, and Harry almost thinks at least someone in the family can’t see through him until Liam gives him a wink when he says he hopes he’ll see him soon.

Zayn lifts Laela up into his arms and turns her to Harry. “Say bye, Lae.”

“No.” She crosses her arms, sticks out her lip.

“Laela…”

“No!” she repeats, louder.

“Bye, Laela,” Harry tries to cut off the clearly rising tantrum. “You get better soon, okay? Do us princesses proud.”

She gives him a narrow eyed look. “You’re a prince, not a princess.”

“My mistake.” Harry swallows down his smile, then has to lean close to them to hug her. He ends up pressed against Zayn too, and it’s enough that he retreats faster than he’d like. “Do us prince and princesses proud, okay?”

She nods, and Harry’s still close enough he can see Zayn’s adam’s apple dip as she tightens her hold on him.

“Okay, jaan, I’ve got to go.” He tells her, running his hand down her back. “You be good for daadi and daada, yeah?”

“No!” she cries again, grabbing onto Zayn’s hair tight enough it must hurt, given his wince. Liam and Louis give each other wary, bracing looks. “No, baba. You can’t go.”

“I’ve got to. Got to do my job, remember? And you can skype me tonight, tell me all about the cookies you and daadi are making.”

“No! You promised you’d show me your pictures and you didn’t, so you can’t!” she’s properly crying now, clutching to Zayn, and Zayn shuts his eyes for a second, hugs her close, before he detaches her hands from around his neck and hand her, still thrashing, to Liam.

“I’ll show them to you next time, okay jaan?”

“No no no!” she yells, and ignores Liam’s attempts to soothe her. “No, I want you to stay baba!”

“He can’t,” Liam tries, holding frantically to her to keep her from falling. Harry can hardly look at it. It’s not his fault, he knows; Zayn’s job takes him away and that’s what he does, but it feels like his fault, like he’s making Zayn neglect his daughter. Like he’s being selfish, keeping Zayn for him instead of letting him stay with Laela. “He’s got to go be a superhero ninja, like we said.”

“No!” she repeats, sobbing.

Louis shakes his head. “We got this,” he tells Zayn. “You’ve got to go.”

“But—”

“Maybe we can stay another day?” Harry suggests. He thinks he could figure it out, maybe rush down, maybe do something so that Laela stops crying and Zayn looks less like someone stabbed him through the heart.

“That won’t make it better.” Trisha gets her hand on Zayn’s back, gives it a little shove towards the car. “She’ll be fine, Zayn. We’ll call you tonight.”

Zayn swallows, nods, and holds the door open for Harry to duck into. They drive away to the sounds of Laela still sobbing, yelling “no no no.”

Zayn’s face is blank as they leave, staring out the window at his hometown flashing past. He doesn’t look like he did with Laela was in surgery, or the night he fell apart in Harry’s arms, but there’s some shade of it in the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his face is so expressionless when Harry hasn’t thought it blank for weeks.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. He scoots over on the bench of the car so he can lean against Zayn’s shoulder.

“No,” Zayn snaps back. Harry doesn’t recoil, because that wasn’t easy for him, and it had to be a thousand times worse for Zayn.

Sure enough, a second later Zayn sighs. “It’s not always that bad,” he explains, rubbing at his temple. “Usually she’s great about it. She’s more scared than she lets on, I think.”

“She’s brave. She’ll get through it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Zayn’s brows draw sharply together. “She shouldn’t have to,” he retorts, that same edge to it. “She should have a dad who’s there for her all the time.”

“Her dad is there for her all the time,” Harry argues. He reaches up, turns Zayn’s face so he’s looking at him, so he can see the sincerity in Harry’s gaze. “You were there. You’re a better father than a lot of dads.”

“I was there for her because you flew me out,” Zayn shoots back, and pulls his head away from Harry’s hand. Harry lets it fall back down to his lap. He was just trying to help. “Not through any fault of mine.”

“Zayn—”

“Just—I’ll be okay in a few minutes,” Zayn interrupts, leaning his temple against the window. His face looks like it could have been carved of marble. “I’ll be professional and everything, I promise.”

Harry could kiss him now. Could distract him from the tears maybe still going on behind them, could anchor him right here right now in Harry. Harry can say without bragging he knows how to do that.

But the driver’s still there, and Harry still doesn’t know what to think of their first kiss, let alone another. So he puts his hand on Zayn’s thigh, to show he’s still there, and gives Zayn his moments.

\---

They drive from Bradford to London, then get on a flight to Sydney via Singapore. They both fall straight to sleep on the first leg, Harry trying to gather energy for tour, Zayn—well, probably brooding on his daughter, if the dark look and the way he’s frowning in his sleep says anything. The flight from Singapore to Sydney, though, Harry’s too keyed up to sleep. The thought of being back on tour is going through his veins like a shot of adrenaline, making him fidgety and excited, too restless to settle.

Zayn’s not asleep either. He’s going through something on his beaten up old laptop, his brow furrowed as he looks at it and fiddles with his mouse. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, and Harry’s very glad they’re on a private flight because he doesn’t want anyone else to see that. Or maybe he just wants the opportunity to see it. Or maybe he wants to taste those lips again, to replace Zayn’s teeth with his own, to crawl into his lap this time and really savor him, when there aren’t tears or exhaustion, just him and Zayn.

He’s been staring for a good minute when Zayn looks up, meets his eyes with a raised eyebrow that means he’s quite aware Harry’s been staring.

Harry meets his gaze squarely, because showing weakness is the first way to get accused of something, but then there’s Zayn’s eyes, big and hazel and dark-rimmed, and the way they curve when Zayn makes a silly face because Harry’s still just staring, and how his eyelashes had looked against his cheek right after Harry had kissed him, and Harry is never going to be able to do anything if he’s still stuck on that. He’s not going to be able to flirt with interviewers or seduce and audience if all he can think about is that kiss.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

“About what?” Zayn’s not fooling anyone, his face going blank and shut down in what’s clearly blatant denial.

“About a few nights ago.” Harry shakes his head, cards his hand through his hair. “About how we kissed,” he specifies, to pin Zayn down.

The word seems to echo in the plane, like it hadn’t been real until Harry’d said it. Maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe Harry had wanted it so much he had just dreamed it, and really they’d just gone to sleep next to each other perfectly chastely.

Except no, because Zayn’s face is still studiously blank, and he blinks slowly, like he’s trying to distract Harry from remembering he’d said anything with the power of his eyelashes. It’s a pretty good attempt, except it means Harry’s still looking at him and remembering.

“Is there anything to talk about?” he asks, slowly.

“Well—” That’s the question, isn’t it? “I mean, I am your boss, and I don’t want to get sued for harassment, because that’d be a scandal, wouldn’t it, I can see the headline of the Mirror—”

“I’m not gonna sue you.” It should be a joke, but Zayn’s not laughing, and neither is Harry. “It was just—like, comfort, right? You were being a nice guy, comforting me. I know that.”

“I am a nice guy,” Harry agrees. He is. He was. He’d wanted to comfort Zayn. “But I don’t—”

“You don’t have to justify it,” Zayn interrupts him. “It was, like, it doesn’t have to mean anything. You can forget about it.”

No, I can’t! Harry wants to yell. He can’t forget about it, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forget about it. But maybe Zayn will? It sounds like Zayn will, but then—Zayn kissed him back. But was that just because he needed someone and Harry was there?

Zayn sighs, and sets his computer aside, leaning forward so he can put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He bites on his lip again before he talks. Sometimes, Harry wonders if Zayn was put on this earth just to torture him. “Look, Harry. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this, for getting me home. It was…” he shakes his head, like words fail him. Harry’s not sure he has words, either. “You’re just—you’ve been amazing. More amazing than anyone should have been.”

He’s just looking at Harry, with all the intensity in those hazel eyes that normally comes from far away, and if Harry was someone else he’d kiss him right now. If Harry knew what it meant, that Harry doesn’t have to justify it. But he doesn’t know what Zayn meant, and he doesn’t want Zayn to leave, if he kisses him now without the excuse of comfort.

So all Harry can do is duck his head, a blush he hasn’t felt since he was sixteen rising in his cheeks. “It’s—I mean, it was just—you had to be here. I couldn’t keep you from Laela.”

“You didn’t have to get me here, though.” Zayn swallows, his head lifting. “I—I couldn’t have gotten home on my own, and that…” he shakes his head, like he can’t conceive of it. “So. Thank you, I guess.”

His eyes dart away from Harry’s, and he bites a lip again, like he’s embarrassed. For once in his life, Harry doesn’t know what to say. Somehow Zayn always steals his voice, with the simple sincerity of what he says, like he doesn’t have any ulterior motives. Like he’s just saying Harry’s amazing without expecting anything back, just because he believes it.

When Harry’s silent for too long, Zayn starts to let go, his face shuttering off—and that’s not what Harry wants at all, doesn’t want to scare him away like that either, so he clamps his hand down over Zayn’s, keeping it on his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” is all he can think to say. “I—anything you need.”

“Within reason,” Zayn corrects, smiling slightly.

“Well, what’s reason, exactly?” Harry asks. Zayn laughs. Harry’s not sure he was joking.

“So,” Zayn goes on, “Looking forward to getting back?”

“Yeah! Not that it wasn’t great to meet your family and to get a break, but I love Australia. Oh, we need to see the opera house! And there’s this one café I found, you’ll love it…” Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying, but all he knows is that the longer he talks the longer Zayn stays there, close and looking at him. Neither of them move their hands away until the pilot comes on the speaker telling them to buckle in for their descent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the end at last! Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoyed!

Harry does love Australia. He loves the heat and the beaches, the way he can get away with wearing not very much clothing and no one bats an eye. He loves how loud and frank the people are, how they laugh at all his jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny. And they love him, too; Australia’s one of his biggest fanbases, and he’s never forgotten that, how they welcomed him when he was a teenager on his first tour, performing outside of England for the first time.

It’s spring there, admittedly, but it’s still nice, and Harry would give anything for the beaches. He spends as much time as he can lounging on the sand, laughing at Zayn’s face as he looks at the water and the sand, still in his dark jeans and tank tops and boots, his nose wrinkled like a cat confronted with water. And maybe, maybe, he does spend more time than he usually would in small swim suits, stretching out with sunglasses on so he can look at Zayn without Zayn noticing. More often than not, Zayn’s looking at him—but Harry can’t tell if he’s looking at him, or _looking_ at him.

It’s a constant refrain in Harry’s mind, one that their talk about the kiss didn’t at all resolve. Zayn kissed him back, had melted into Harry like Harry was the only thing holding him up. But he had told Harry to forget about it. Zayn still looked at Harry like he was the only thing in the world he was seeing. But that was his job.

It shouldn’t have mattered, because Harry still couldn’t do anything about it, still wasn’t allowed. But he couldn’t help but think about it, when Zayn handed his phone to Harry because his mum wanted to ask him something, when sometimes he’d skype Laela from the bus so Harry could lean in and wave and she’d laugh and chatter at them both. When Harry would go out and Zayn would guide him out of clubs with a hand on his back, keeping him grounded.

But even with that, it’s good to be back on tour, to be up on stage in front of crowds and to catch cameras trained at him on the streets and to sign things and have girls swoon at a hint of his dimples. To have the rush back, of touring and going and adventures, and it’s even better when he knows Zayn’s there beside him if he needs him, that at the end of the day if he’s too tired to go out or just doesn’t want to Zayn will be there willing to watch a movie or just talk with him.

Which is why it comes as such a shock, when he’s forced to remember just why Zayn is really there.

The note’s innocuous, really, just a slip of paper that the concierge hands Harry with a “this was just left for you!” as he comes through the lobby, laughing as he hangs off of Zayn’s shoulders and tries to stay upright and fails. The world’s spinning pleasantly, and Zayn was looking at him like he noticed how Harry’s shirt was basically see through, and there was a guy at the bar who’d been around the world twice and had the coolest stories, and Harry’s having a pretty good night, really. He’ll go upstairs and then maybe he’ll be able to get Zayn to watch TV with him while he sobers up, if he can get him off his computer.

He doesn’t even remember the note until he gets upstairs, and Zayn dumps him in his room with a laugh as Harry hangs on a moment too long so Zayn almost falls on top of him. “You’re such a sloppy drunk,” he teases, and Harry reaches out so he can grab onto Zayn’s wrists, keep him here, near the bed.

“Drunk on you,” Harry coos, tipsy enough to forget he shouldn’t be flirting. “Sloppy on you?”

“That doesn’t sound sexy,” Zayn retorts, but he sounds more amused than anything, and he lets Harry hold onto his wrists as he flops backwards on the bed, waiting for everything to stop spinning. Zayn’s in between his legs, Harry can’t help but notice. It’d be easy, to tug him down.

“It’s very sexy,” Harry argues. He opens his eyes to smirk up at Zayn. “I can show you.”

“Not if you can’t stand up on your own.”

“I think standing up would be counterproductive,” Harry tugs on Zayn’s arms, but Zayn’s steady enough that it makes Harry sit up, not Zayn fall down. That’s a pity. Well, it’s probably good, but it’s a pity.

“Depends on what’s standing.”

Harry snorts, and Zayn grins at him. He’s surprisingly dirty-minded, sometimes. It’s great. He’s great. “I stand very well, I’ll have you know.”

“”cause you’re doing so well with the sitting.”

“I am!” Harry, reluctantly, lets go of Zayn’s hands to show him how he can sit up on his own. Zayn just grins at him, and it’s fond but there’s something in it that’s like how he looks at Laela and that’s not right. He wants Zayn to look at him like he’s an adult, an adult Zayn might want, not like a kid. Which maybe means he should stop drinking like a uni student around him, but hey. Harry likes getting drunk. Still, “Look!” he declares, digging the note out of his pocket, “I can read on my own and everything.”

He unfolds the note. It’s good for a demonstration, because it’s big blocky typed letters, even if it’s misspelled and—

Harry freezes, as he reads the first line. Zayn must see his face, because he grabs the note out of Harry’s hands before Harry can read further. He skims it, then crushes it between his fingers and drops it to the floor.

Harry notices that through some sort of haze. He just—he hadn’t remembered, really, that someone wanted to kill him. That there was a person out there who didn’t just hate him, they hated him enough that they wanted him dead, that they’d snuck into his room and threatened him and Harry’s in danger and—

“Breathe.” Zayn’s on his knees, suddenly, crouching in front of Harry so Harry doesn’t have to lift his head to look at him. Zayn’s holding his hands now, holding them tight enough that Harry can feel it even through the panic. “Come on, babe. Breathe for me. In and out. Like when you had stage fright, remember? You’re okay. You’re safe. ”

Harry shakes his head. He’s trying. He is. He’s trying to breathe, but the guy was here he was close enough to give the hotel this note and now—

“Just look at me, yeah? Focus on me. You’re okay.” Zayn’s voice is calm and steady and smooth and it feels like a blanket wrapping around the panic, that and his calloused hands holding on like nothing could tear him away. “Breathe for me, babe. It’s okay.”

Harry draws in a sharp, shuddering breath, then lets it out slowly. Zayn smiles when he sees it, the corners of his eyes scrunching up, and it’s a nice enough sight for Harry to focus on it, breathe in and out again. “There we go.” He stays there as Harry takes a few more deep breaths, as his heart beat starts to go normal again. Stays there and keeps holding on. “You okay?” he asks at last, like he knows when Harry’s steady enough to talk.

“I—” Harry swallows. “They were here, Zayn. Here. In the hotel. They know I’m here.”

“They won’t get you.” Harry glances at his hands, and then there’s a hand on his chin, forcing him to meet Zayn’s eyes again. “No, look at me Harry, they won’t get you.” Zayn’s face is set and solemn, and there’s something never-ending in his gaze, like Harry could fall into his eyes forever and ever and still never find the bottom. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. “I’ll keep you safe, Harry. I promised. And I still do.”

“I know, just—how’d they know I was here?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“At least—at least they didn’t get to my room.” It’s something. They might not know. Might not know yet, at least, because they’d found Harry’s room before. “I just, I didn’t think, I didn’t know—what do I do?”

“You do what you’ve been doing.” Zayn squeezes Harry’s hand. “You be Harry Styles, and don’t let this asshole win, like you’ve been doing.”

“It just, like, I didn’t think about them actually being here,” Harry mutters. It’s stupid. He should have remembered, should have known they could get close because they had before. “What if something happens?”

“Then I’ll keep you safe.” Zayn lets go of Harry’s hand and stands, so he’s looking down at Harry like from a great distance. “That’s what I do, yeah? Thought I was your hero.”

But what if you get hurt doing it? Harry doesn’t ask it, because there’s no real way to say that to your bodyguard without saying why you care about them doing their job and protecting you. But still, it’d be Harry’s fault, and he knows Zayn’s accepted that risk but the thought of Zayn getting hurt—of something happening to him—even if it wasn’t Harry’s fault, the thought twists in his stomach.

“Come on, Harry.” Zayn smiles, soft and sweet, like he did at Laela when she held his hand before going into pre-op. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yeah.” He does. More than anything, he thinks. He trusts Zayn. Zayn will keep him safe. He knows that. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Okay, good.” Slowly, Zayn pulls Harry up to his feet. “Now go get ready for bed. Trust me, sleep makes everything better.”

“You would say that,” Harry retorts, and Zayn chuckles as he pushes Harry towards the bathroom. Without Harry having to ask, he hovers outside while Harry brushes his teeth and pisses, and doesn’t comment when Harry does the same as he uses the bathroom.

He leans against the wall while Harry strips off his shirt and jeans. For once, Harry doesn’t think about putting on a show, about Zayn seeing him mostly naked. Now, the weight of his gaze is just a comfort, that lingers as Harry gets into bed.

“You good?” Zayn asks from the doorway as he flicks off the lights.

Harry glances around. The shadows seem darker, and the windows are so big and—“Can you—can you stay?” he asks, quietly. It’s stupid. He’s a grown man, he shouldn’t be afraid.

“Of course. I’ll just kip on the floor, or—”

“Don’t be stupid.” Harry pulls the blankets back invitingly. “We’ve shared a bed before.”

In the shadows, Harry can’t really see Zayn’s face, but he thinks he sees him swallow. “Um. Yeah. Sure. Just. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He turns the lights back on when he leaves, but sure enough it’s only a few minutes before he’s back, wearing just his pajama pants. Harry doesn’t get a real chance to appreciate that before he’s turned the lights back off, and has slid into the bed next to Harry.

“I told Paul, and there’s someone outside the door, too,” he tells Harry, turning onto his side to face him. “And I’m here. You’re safe.”

Harry nods. “Sorry. For being such a coward about it.”

“You’re not being a coward. Being afraid makes sense.”

“You aren’t.”

“Well, I’m not the target. And I’m trained for this.”

“But—”

“Think of it this way.” Zayn’s smile flashes, fierce and dark. “Now we know they’re here. We have a way to track them down.”

“Yeah.” It’s a cold comfort, when they could be outside the door right now. “But…”

“Harry.” Zayn’s hand is on Harry’s waist, and his smile has softened. “There are no monsters under the bed.”

“I’m not Laela,” Harry retorts. “And my monsters are real.”

“I know.” Zayn’s hand is still there. “Doesn’t make it any less true. Go to sleep. In the morning, we’ll deal with it.”

Harry nods. But… “Just, don’t leave?” he asks.

“I won’t.”

It sounds like a promise, like a vow. It’s enough that Harry can close his eyes, let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He can feel Zayn breathe out too, like Harry relaxing relaxes him. His hand slides off Harry’s waist, and suddenly it’s almost like Zayn isn’t there at all, like this person could be here, could be anywhere.

It’s stupid, and it is cowardly, whatever Zayn says. But still. Harry’s not a hero, and he’s not brave, and he needs Zayn here. Slowly, like maybe Zayn won’t notice, he rolls onto his side, wiggles backwards so he can curl against Zayn’s front, so he can feel Zayn pressed against his back, steady and solid and there, to protect him.

Zayn’s body is still stiff, but he’s always like that until he’s deeply asleep, so Harry thinks he might be too tired to have noticed. But then his arm comes almost delicately over Harry’s waist until it’s resting on his chest, and Zayn’s breath is hot on his shoulder. “I’ve got you, jaan,” he whispers, so quietly Harry thinks maybe he wasn’t supposed to hear it. “Don’t worry.”

He can’t quite do that, but Harry still falls asleep, with Zayn wrapped around him like a shield.

\---

Harry probably shouldn’t have gone out at all, but everything’s less scary in the bright morning light, when you wake up with the guy you have a planet sized crush on still spooning you. And when he’d decided to go out Zayn had smiled at him, instead of scolding him like Harry had expected, like Paul had done; had smiled and nodded like he approved.

Still, after lunch, Zayn’s hand settles at Harry’s back, and he leans in, so his breath is whispering against Harry’s neck. “Do you need to do more sightseeing?” he asks, quietly. Harry shakes his head. In another life, maybe, Zayn would be asking him to go back because he can’t keep his hands off of him. Because he’s as close as Harry is to running his hand down Harry’s back to his ass, to biting the ear his lips are so close to.

But this isn’t that other life, and Zayn isn’t asking him because of that. “No. Why?”

He turns his head so he can look at Zayn. Zayn’s eyes dart to the side, narrow, then go back to Harry. “I would like it if you got back into somewhere more controlled.” His gaze goes back to that same spot. “I don’t want to drag you away, but—”

“Yeah, no, back’s good, I can chill.” Harry lets Zayn lead him away, with that hand still on his back, and very patiently waits until they get to the car before he presses.

“You’ve never made me go back before.”

“I didn’t make—”

“You wanted me to.” Harry keeps his gaze on Zayn, because that came out a little too sincere, a little too true, but that doesn’t have to be obvious. “I’m not—I’m not being stupid anymore, I’m listening to my bodyguard. So what happened?”

Zayn shrugs. “Not sure if it’s anything yet. I’d just rather be safe than sorry.”

“If you hadn’t wanted me to go out, I’d have listened.”

“I did want you to go out,” Zayn replies, simply. His fingers drum over his knee, over where his jeans are ripped to reveal a slice of skin. “The fact that you want to go out, even knowing they’re here—that’s amazing, Harry. You shouldn’t limit that.”

Harry knows he’s blushing, at the amazing. At the frank, simple praise, that’s somehow so much better than anything magazines have written about him. “It’s not,” he mutters, tugging at his hair. “I’m not being brave. I’m just not thinking about it.”

“It is brave,” Zayn argues. Harry has to look away now, has to glance down because looking at Zayn when he says things like that is too much. “No, Harry, it is.”

“It’s just trusting you.” He dares a look at Zayn; Zayn’s biting his lip, and now he’s concentrated out the window, away from Harry. If Harry really, really looks, he can almost imagine a blush staining Zayn’s cheeks, but it’s hard to tell against his skin, and Harry’s probably making it up anyway.

They get back to the arena with plenty of time, even though there are crowds forming outside, and Zayn disappears almost as soon as they get inside, nodding to another one of the security team who falls into place behind Harry. It’s always sad, not having Zayn trailing him, but Harry goes to find the band, because he hasn’t properly talked to them in probably at least a day.

Hanging out with them occupies him for a while, but they’re such a unit he sometimes feels like he’s intruding, so after an hour or so he wanders away. He checks in the green room, but neither Lou nor Caroline are there, so he circles around. The crew all looks busy enough that Harry doesn’t want to disturb them just to amuse him, and no one else is around.

Harry finally finds Zayn and Paul together, talking quietly.

“Are you sure?” Paul asks, as Harry walks up behind Zayn. They’re intent enough he doesn’t think either of them notice him, which is a little insulting. But they are talking intently, and Harry doesn’t want to interrupt, so he pauses a little ways away, where his outfits for the show are hanging. Caroline will kill him if he messes with them, of course, but he can see if he wants anything else.

“No, but—I think it might be,” Zayn replies. Okay, so he can hear. It’s not rude if he happens to be here. 

Paul sighs. “Damn it.”

Zayn’s voice sounds like he’s shrugging, which Harry didn’t know could be communicated through someone’s tone, but he’s been paying that much attention to Zayn, apparently. “I’m not sure. We’ve pinned him down. It’s not like Harry will stay in one place long enough for that to happen often.”

Harry wrinkles his nose at the flowing linen shirt he’ll wear in the first set. It’s not—well, it’s not false, but still, something about the way Zayn says it makes it itch under Harry’s skin. He doesn’t stay in one place long, but that’s not a bad thing. He likes to explore.

“He does sometimes. But true. Okay,” Paul pauses, probably checking his clip board. “I’ll talk to everyone. We’ll put everyone on alert.”

“Good. Keep me updated.”

“Of course.”

Paul walking away is distinctive, then Harry turns around to see Zayn frowning at his phone. He looks up when he hears Harry approach, though, and smiles a little in welcome. “Hey.” He hesitates, narrows his eyes. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” Harry says immediately, out of instinct. Then, because it’s bugging him, the way Zayn had said that, and especially if he hadn’t wanted Harry to hear. “Yes, actually. What do you mean, I won’t stay in one place?”

Zayn looks confused for a second, like that wasn’t what he was expecting, then he shrugs. “What I meant? You don’t stay in one place.”

“I like to visit friends,” Harry clarifies. “I don’t stay in London often.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Zayn trails off, then shakes his head. “Never mind. About the show—”

“No, what?” Harry presses. He needs to know what Zayn thinks about him. Needs to know what would make Zayn, who’s possibly the worst liar Harry’s ever met, and who’s never not told Harry important things, stop talking. “Come on, tell me. I can take it. What do you think?”

Zayn presses his lips together, but when he meets Harry’s gaze it’s even, his non-judgmental bodyguard look. “I’m not really one to judge. But you don’t stay anywhere, often. I wouldn’t know what to call your home, if I was asked.”

Harry winces. He said he could take it, and he can, but that’s not what he expected. Not what he wanted to hear. “I have a home! I have a lot of homes.”

“You have houses,” Zayn corrects, gently. “That doesn’t make a home.”

“What does? A kid?” Harry demands. Zayn’s gaze narrows, and Harry’s never seen that look turned on him, but it’s hard and stern.

“No,” Zayn retorts, and he’s not gentle anymore. “Responsibility does. Roots do. Maybe I’m the wrong one to say, but is there anywhere you want to stay?”

“I could!” Harry protests. “I could have that, if I wanted.” It’s not like he doesn’t have the houses, and he could settle down anywhere he wanted, if he did want. He could settle down in Bradford, if that was where he decided.

“That’s what I’m saying. You don’t want to.” Zayn shrugs again, and Harry had thought they had moved past that, the noncommittal shrug. “You’re happy without any sort of commitment, and that’s fine. I just don’t get it.”

“Not all of us have families like yours, Zayn.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest, glares. They’re fighting. They’ve never fought, and he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t like what Zayn’s saying either, and he might not be brave but he’s not going to let that stand. “And how can you talk about commitment, anyway? How’s your daughter’s mother doing?”

Zayn’s narrow, and his fists clench at his sides like he’d like to hit Harry. He probably would, because that’s how Zayn deals with things. He doesn’t need the sort of subtlety that Harry’s world has, doesn’t get how he likes wandering, or he did, or something.

“I,” Zayn says, very slowly, each word like a deliberate threat, “have the hugest commitment I could ever make, back at my home. Which I have, because I had to grow up and make one for my daughter. Not all of us could ignore our responsibility and do whatever the fuck we wanted all the time.”

“Like I do?” Harry snaps back. “Because all of this is nothing.” He waves a hand, takes in backstage. “Not my career or anything that I care about.”

“So you have one thing you’ll stick around for. I’m so impressed.” Harry’s learned how to let words roll off his back through long practice, but each of Zayn’s get right through him. “Next thing you know you might have a relationship that lasts longer than a week.”

That one hurts, when it’s Zayn saying it, who Harry might throttle right now if he thought he could get away with it but is still too good-looking for words. “Fuck you,” Harry spits, and spins to storm away. He doesn’t want to hear Zayn criticize him like this. What does he know?  He’s been here a few months, and not everyone can have what he has, a built in home and daughter and friends. Just because Harry hasn’t found anywhere he might want to make a home, it doesn’t mean anything.

\---

The first set’s not amazing, but it’s pretty good. After this long, it’s easy for Harry to channel his annoyance at Zayn into stage energy, so he’s even more active than usual, running around to grind on the band and blowing kisses to the crowd and throwing everything in him into his music. He doesn’t need Zayn. He just needs this stage, wherever it is, and that’s enough. The stage and the lights and the music and the crowd cheering, all these people who love him more than any one person ever could. This is where he belongs, right here, and screw Zayn and his cozy home and daughter and friends, the place he can’t get away from. Harry’s right where he belongs.

He jogs off stage to change, and doesn’t look around for Zayn at all. Harry doesn’t need him. He’s just his bodyguard, and he doesn’t need that here.

He strips off his overshirt, chugs a bottle of water, lets Lou fuss with his hair. Zayn’s not there. He’s really not there, not even hanging around joking with Caroline like he usually does. Caroline seems to be glaring at him, actually, and that’s just great too.  He’s turned Harry’s crew against him, with his eyelashes and cheekbones and silly smiles and gentle hands.

“Harry.” Speak of the devil. Harry only jumps a little at Zayn’s hand on his arm, and he recovers quickly, turning away to talk pointedly to Lou. “Harry.”

“I’m ignoring you,” he points out, in case Zayn didn’t get it.

“No.” It’s a snap, a whiplash order like Harry’s never heard from him before, and it makes his head turn despite himself. Zayn’s not glaring, like he would be if he was mad; he’s not apologetic. He’s just very, very serious, and focused enough that it sets something alight in Harry’s stomach, the way he looks at Harry like there’s nothing else in the world. “No,” he repeats. “No, Harry, you have to listen to me.”

“If it’s an apology—”

“He’s here.”

“What?”

Zayn’s hand is on his arm, tightening as Harry gets up. He gives Lou a sidelong look, then draws Harry a few feet away. They can’t have long until Harry needs to go back on, but he’s holding tight to Harry like he’s never letting go. “He’s here,” Zayn says again, leaning close, so their foreheads are almost meeting. “You don’t need to do anything, but I wanted you to know. The guy who’s been threatening you—one of the security guys spotted him coming into the arena.”

“How—no.” Harry shakes his head. Not here. This is his home, they can’t come get him here, not here. “No, we don’t know what he looks like, you can’t—”

“We don’t know, but we suspect. We’re going to get him, though.” Zayn’s fingers are a vise on Harry’s arm, like they’ll bruise, and Harry almost wants them to, if only because it’ll ground him. If only because it’ll leave Zayn on him. “During this next set. Nothing will happen to you. But you need to be aware, if I say anything, you have to do it, okay? Even if it’s to drop to the floor.”

Harry’s nodding, but it’s like he’s a puppet. He’s here. The guy who’s been threatening him is here. Zayn’s going after him. Going after this guy who could hurt people. Who could hurt Harry. Who could hurt _Zayn_ , and that’s—

“Hey. Harry. Eyes on me.” Harry can’t not, can’t not look at Zayn, and he lifts his gaze. Zayn’s jaw is set and his eyes are fierce and hard, his lips twisted into that smile he’d worn before going into the ring, like this was where he belonged, too. It’s weird, after all this time. Like Harry’s looking at someone else, someone he doesn’t know. “It’ll be fine. You just needed to know, in case. Now go wow them, yeah?”

“Zayn—”

“Thirty seconds, Harry!”

“Zayn!” Harry yelps, but Zayn’s letting go, stepping away, turning away, and Harry doesn’t know what he’d say anyway. Be safe? Come back to me? He can’t say any of that, and it’s already been said, anyway. Zayn knows that. “Just—” Zayn glances over his shoulder, and he’s still got that smile on, the one that’s almost vicious, almost excited. “Don’t—”

“I won’t.” He nods, then jogs off. Harry watches him go until he can’t, then there’s a crew member grabbing him, pushing him towards the stage, and Harry swallows and puts on his best smile, listens to the roar of the crowd and tries to let that carry him.

It doesn’t help. This is probably the worst set he’s ever played, and he knows it, and he can’t care. Somewhere in that crowd is someone who wants to kill him, and Zayn’s out there with him. Hunting him down. And who knows what will happen, because this guy is willing to kill and Zayn wouldn’t, and how is Harry supposed to focus on the concert when that’s happening? When the fireworks could cover up the sound of a gunshot or the crowd could cover the sight of someone falling—of Zayn falling, bleeding, dying, and he’d never said anything to him. Nothing that mattered.

He misses a high note, makes a face, hams up his apologies to the crowd. It feels like forever ago that Harry was mad at Zayn, that he’d been hurt and jealous and sulking. He can’t see Zayn. Can’t see any sort of to-do that would mean something’s happening. Maybe they’re in the wings, maybe they’ve already got him, maybe he’s already gotten away, maybe maybe maybe.

The set goes by in an interminable blur, and Harry’s vaguely sorry for this audience, because they’re definitely not getting his best show, but it’s hard to be that sorry when his whole focus is on Zayn. On Zayn, and what would be happening.  On how he hasn’t said anything, about how he feels, about how fucking in love he is. Because god, it is love, isn’t? It’s not just a crush, the way Harry’s whole self is out there with Zayn, because right now it matters more to Harry whether Zayn lives or dies than whether he does.

Finally, finally, the show’s over and Harry takes his bow and manages to wait until the crowd’s done cheering before he’s running offstage.

It’s the normal post-show rush, people going around working on break down and where they’re going next and where is Zayn? Zayn’s usually right there when Harry gets offstage, right there like he’s been watching the whole show, and if he’s not maybe something’s happened, maybe he—

“Harry?” Harry spins, and there’s Zayn, right there. Right there, whole, smiling, and Harry throws himself at Zayn before he can think about anything else. Zayn rocks back a step as the full weight of Harry hits him, but he catches Harry easily, wraps his arms around Harry too. He’s here. He’s here and whole, Harry realizes, because his hands are everywhere, and he doesn’t care who sees because he needs to make sure Zayn’s okay.

“It’s okay,” Zayn murmurs. He’s holding Harry close too, his hands running up and down Harry’s back, his breath hot on Harry’s cheek. “We got him, babe. You’re safe.”

Harry turns so he can bury his face in Zayn’s neck, can inhale the scent of him, can feel the warmth of his skin. This is where he belongs. On stage, but also here, with Zayn’s arms around him, with Zayn here and close and not hurt and feeling like home.

\---

“So what happened?” Harry demands, a few hours later. He hadn’t had a chance before now; he’d only had a chance to hug Zayn for a few minutes, which wasn’t even a fraction of the time he needed, before he’d been hustled off to an interview, and then they were packing up and Zayn was escorting Harry out of the building. Then someone, who might have been Harry, he wasn’t even sure, had decided that tonight was a night for celebrating so the whole crew took over a bar, until Harry doesn’t see anyone he doesn’t know in the whole building. It’s nice.

Even nicer is Zayn next to him, leaning against the bar on both elbows. It makes him look like an invitation, right there, and Harry’s a little drunk and a lot in love and Zayn’s not hurt at all and he really doesn’t want to pass this up.

Zayn shrugs. “He didn’t put up much of a fight, really, and I mean, there were a couple of us. Went pretty easily.”

“No, I mean, how’d you know?”

“Oh.” Zayn glances down at the beer the bartender’s just put on the bar next to him.  “Harry, I can’t, I’m on the job.”

“No you aren’t.” Harry glances around, and sure enough, “Chris is here, he’s on duty. You’re here to celebrate a job well done.” He grins, his most convincing grin, and sure enough it gets a smile from Zayn. “So drink! It’s all on me, promise.”

“You don’t—”

“I do.” Harry nudges the beer closer to him with his elbow. It also, conveniently, puts Harry closer to Zayn. Win-win. “Come on, you caught the bad guy! That deserves a drink.”

“Fine.” Zayn sighs, but his lips are twitching, and Harry just grins back and watches closely as Zayn raises the glass to his mouth and sips. Maybe Harry is drunker than he thought, because somehow his gaze lingers on Zayn’s lips, on how his tongue flicks out afterwards to lick the last drop. “Happy now?”

“Very.” His voice is rougher than it should be, so Harry gulps down some of his own drink, and fixes Zayn with his best ‘tell me now please’ look. “So what happened? How’d you know who it was?”

Zayn shrugs again. “I, like, well, I knew he was around, yeah? Because of the note. And then when we were out I saw someone who I thought I recognized from when I was going through the twitter hate you got, from their profile picture. And I was right, I guess? So then security was in the look out, and they found him, and now the police have him.”

Harry blinks. “You just—recognized him from a random tweet out of thousands you went through?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’ve got a good visual memory.” Zayn glances down, tracing condensation on the wood of the bar. “And—well, he stood out. What he said…”

“Still, that’s amazing.” Harry stares until Zayn looks up again, then he grins. It almost looks like Zayn’s blushing. “Definitely worth a drink.”

It gets a laugh, a light giggle that makes Harry want to do some sort of dance so that it keeps happening always. “You’re such a hard boss,” he retorts, taking another sip.

“I know, I’m awful,” Harry agrees. “Buying you drinks, making you watch movies with me, flying you around the world…” He sticks out his tongue, but Zayn doesn’t laugh again. Instead, he bites his lip and doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“Yeah, also, sorry. For this afternoon.”

“No problem.” It’s not entirely true. Harry still hasn’t entirely forgotten how much it hurt, all the words Zayn threw at him. But he’s here, and that’s overwhelming most of the anger, the relief that Zayn’s all right.

“No, it is. I shouldn’t have—you’re just being nice, you know? Like you are. I just. This isn’t exactly where I thought I’d be right now, you know?” He lifts his head, and his eyes are a hint of gold through his eyelashes. “But that’s not your fault. So, sorry.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” Harry not very sneakily scoots over so he’s standing right next to Zayn, so he can lean his cheek against Zayn’s shoulder. “I like you here.”

Zayn smiles, a little sheepishly, a little shyly. God. Harry just wants to hug him, then to kiss him, then to hug him again, then to fuck him, then to make him breakfast in the morning. He wants Zayn to giggle at him all the time, he wants to wake up in his arms in the morning, he wants Zayn’s hand on his back and his voice in his ear. He wants them getting into fights so they can make up later.

“Come on,” he says, “Dance with me.”

Zayn’s grin twists, goes mischievous. “No, thanks.”

“But you aren’t working! You can dance with me.” Harry spins around, so he can grab Zayn’s wrists. “Please?”

“You really don’t want to see me dance, told you,” Zayn laughs, trying to pull his hands away. Harry sticks out his lower lip, gives his best pout.

“Pleeeease?”

“Nu-uh, that’s not working on me.” Zayn insists, still laughing. He tugs, and he probably expected it to get Harry to let go but instead Harry stumbles forward, into him. Zayn’s hampered by Harry’s hands and how he’s leaning on the bar, so he doesn’t really catch Harry, and Harry ends up pressed against him, his chin knocking into Zayn’s face, one leg between Zayn’s.

For a second, Harry can’t help it. He freezes, takes in what it feels like to be this close to Zayn, to feel the strength and solidity of Zayn’s body. Their lips are so fucking close, and it’d be so easy…

“Sorry!” he yelps instead, and rocks back, so he’s not that close. Zayn—Zayn’s eyes flick up, from Harry’s lips. Harry’s sure of it, that was definitely where he was looking. At Harry’s lips, close to his.

“No problem,” Zayn replies. His tongue peaks out, wetting his own lips. Harry really shouldn’t be close to him right now. Not when everything in him is screaming to chase Zayn’s tongue with his own.

Instead, he steps back. Not here. He can’t.

“I’m gonna—I mean, if you don’t—I’m going to dance,” he stammers. He hasn’t stammered since he was sixteen. “You’re free to join me.”

“I—like, better not.” Zayn grins, a hint of teasing in it. “I don’t want you to lose all respect for me.”

“Respect is overrated,” Harry whines back, but he goes. He needs to go, before he jumps Zayn then and there, in that random bar in Australia.

He dances for a while, and it’s fun, messing around with the band and the crew. It takes him a little while to figure out why he feels so normal, why this feels like every other night in a club—then he glances over at the bar.

Zayn’s still looking at him. It’s not for work, he doesn’t have to watch out for Harry, not because of a threat or because it’s his job, he’s just looking at Harry. Looking at Harry as he tugs Lou into a dance. It’s like every other time, Zayn’s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head—except there’s no reason for him to be watching this time. No reason, except he wants to look. Except he likes to look.

It takes a second, but then Zayn notices Harry watching him look, and he shrugs and glances, down. It’s not what Harry wants. Harry wants Zayn to always be watching him, only watching him, and so he turns back, pretends he didn’t see anything. When he steals another look, Zayn’s eyes are back on him. It’s a heady feeling, probably gets him drunker than the few beers he steals, so he actually isn’t officially drunk when he stumbles up to the bar next to Zayn.

“Hiii,” he laughs. He’s just happy. Zayn’s here and smiling at him and he’s safe and Zayn’s safe and tour is good and everything’s good. “Having fun?”

“Yep!” Zayn giggles back. His eyes are bright, brighter than Harry’s seen them, and he’s holding a mostly-empty beer that looks different than the one Harry bought him.

“Are you drunk?”

“Not entirely?” Zayn looks at the empty glass. “I don’t, like, drink much anymore, so my tolerance is kinda shit.”

“Cheap date?”

“If I went on dates, sure.”

“Do you?” Harry demands. It’s important. He needs to know.

Zayn shakes his head.  His hair’s out of its ponytail, and Harry really wants to just tuck it behind his ear, so he does. Zayn’s warm under his fingers, and he shivers as Harry’s thumb brushes his cheek. “No,” he says, his voice a little rough, “No, I mean, with Laela, and I’ve been with you the whole time, so not much time for dating.”

Harry manfully restrains the urge to shout victoriously. “Well, now you can take some days off. If you need them. To go on dates.”

“I don’t.” Zayn bites his lip again. If he keeps doing that, Harry actually cannot speak for what’ll happen. “Like, I don’t, there isn’t—” He swallows, shakes his head again. When he settles, he’s smiling, a little wickedly. “When’d I have time, with you dragging me around cities?”

“I am showing you the world, the least you could do is be grateful,” Harry retorts, sticking out his tongue.

“I am.” The smile’s gone, and now it’s just an almost sheepish look. “It’s sick. Really. That you’re letting me do this, showing me places. It’s just—not everyone would, and it’s really, like, sweet.”

“My pleasure.” Harry bows, almost knocks over an empty glass on the bar except Zayn catches it.

Time moves weirdly from there. Harry’s not even drunk, but it feels like he is, as people come over to talk to him and Zayn stays next to him and once Caroline said something funny and he giggled and curved into Harry’s shoulder, and Harry probably loses at least five minutes over that. Zayn’s just…touchy, when drunk, it seems; there’s never a second when Harry and Zayn aren’t touching somehow, and Harry’s on fire from it. That stays true right up until they stumble upstairs into their suite together, Harry resting his chin on Zayn’s shoulder as he works the keycard.

It’s only when they get into the suite, dark with just some moonlight streaming through, that they pause. This isn’t—it’s not allowed, Harry reminds himself. He can be flirty downstairs where there are all sorts of people, but up here…up here, it feels like he and Zayn are coming back together. Coming back to a hotel room together. Like Harry’s next step should be to close the door and kiss Zayn against it, to see if Zayn really can pick him up and carry him to bed.

Zayn’s the one who steps away. “So, um, goodnight?” It sounds more like a question than a statement. An invitation? Harry’s not sure. Even with how Zayn’s been looking at him all night. And Harry…maybe he could make it an invitation? Maybe he could sidle up to Zayn and just kiss him right now, when he’s a little tipsy and might not push him away.

Except that’s not allowed, and Zayn might push him away, and he might be reading this all wrong, so Harry nods. “Yeah, night. Sleep tight!”

Zayn gives him a long, unreadable look, then he nods, and disappears into his room.

Harry gets ready for bed, and even gets into it, but he keeps on seeing that look in Zayn’s eyes, how he was watching Harry like no one else existed in the world. How it felt when his hand was on his back, when their chests were pressed together and Zayn’s gaze was lingering on Harry’s lips. How it felt to kiss him, like Harry was filled with warmth.

But he can’t have that. Harry rolls over, into the empty spot next to him in his bed. Not his bed. A bed he is sleeping in, alone. Because he can’t have Zayn, because, well, because. Because Paul said so. Because he had a job to do, and he can’t be distracted. Except he did that job, and now Harry’s safe, and it’s all because of him. Because of Zayn, who touches Harry like he’ll break but laughs at him like he doesn’t care he’s famous, who’s the softest touch Harry’s ever known but can also take down a man twice his size. Because of Zayn, who Harry’s so horribly gone for, it’s so far past a crush Harry can’t even see the ends of it.

He rolls over again, onto his stomach this time. The blankets are too hot, so he kicks them off. He’s not allowed. He’s—he _can’t_. What if Zayn says no? What if Zayn thinks of him as a kid, as a client, as someone to be protected but not to be anything else? What if when Harry leapt into Zayn’s arms, Zayn wasn’t thinking about how grateful he was Harry was okay, like Harry was? It’s never been like this before, Harry just doesn’t know. He’s not sure what he’d do, if Zayn outright told him no, left him without his fantasies at least. 

But Zayn had held him when he was scared, and protected him. Zayn had listened to him talk, and let him make his own decisions, and had trusted him with the most important parts of him. Zayn was going to sleep one room over, and it’s so far away Harry could cry from the distance, from how it’s not like that night when he woke up in Zayn’s arms and he’d never felt more right. He could do that forever, wake up like that.

And maybe he could. Zayn had kissed him back, Zayn watched him dance when he didn’t have to, Zayn stared at his lips. Zayn held him when he slept. Zayn’s worth the risk.

Harry’s never really been a brave person, never known how to be. But Zayn had called him brave once, and he remembers that, as he gets out of bed. He just brushed his teeth, but he fusses with his hair, tries to get it into something that at least resembles order, then pulls on a pair of pajama pants, so it’s not quite so…pressuring, and so he has pockets for the supplies he puts there.

Then he leaves his room, walks through the silent suite, and knocks on Zayn’s door. 

“Yeah?” Zayn doesn’t sound asleep, that’s good. He’s more likely to be…amenable, if he’s not grumpy from having woken up.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

“Harry? Yeah, ‘course.”

Harry pushes the door open. Zayn’s sprawled on top of the covers in his pajama pants, lit only be the bedside light, so he’s in a pool of gold in the center of the shadows, all dark ink scrawled over wiry muscles. He blinks, once, as Harry comes in, his forehead furrowing as he watches Harry close the door behind him. “Are you okay?” he asks, immediately. “We caught the guy, you don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.” Harry looks right at him as he says it, because he isn’t. Not anymore. Not of this. “Because of you. Because you saved me.”

“It wasn’t—like—” Zayn runs a hand back through his hair. It looks soft, soft and thick and perfect for Harry to grab at. “Anyone could have—”

“But they didn’t.” Harry steps forward, resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest. This is an interview, sort of, the most important one of his life; he just has to charm Zayn into liking him enough to let him into his bed and his life. “You’re the one who did.” Another step, and he’s at the foot of the bed. Zayn’s staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, his face slack like he can’t process what’s happening. But it’s not rejection. It’s not disgust. “It’s like I told Laela. You’re my hero. And heroes get rewards, right?”

Zayn blinks again, licking his lips. “I didn’t do it for a reward.”

“Zayn.” Harry sighs. “That’s the point.” He’s on his knees on the bed now, straddling Zayn’s legs. Zayn makes a sound Harry can’t quite interpret, whether it’s a growl or a whine, but Harry stops, shifting his weight back on his heels. Zayn’s just staring, and he looks almost like he did on that floor in that other hotel, like he’s too overwhelmed to do anything. “Zayn,” Harry says, softly. “Tell me to go and I’ll go.” Well, it’ll break Harry’s heart, but Zayn doesn’t need to know that. “Or tell me I can stay.”

Harry watches as Zayn’s adam’s apple bobs once. “I—are you sure? I’m—”

“Gorgeous?” Harry interrupts. “Hot? Handsome? Wonderful?”

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Me,” he finishes. “Just—me.”

“That’s who I want.” Harry’s inching forward now, until his knees are next to Zayn’s hips. All of Zayn’s muscles are tense under Harry, and Harry can see Zayn’s chest rise and fall with quick breaths. “Do you—am I—” Now it’s his turn to swallow. Bravery. He can do this, especially with Zayn looking up at him, so beautiful against the crisp sheets. “Am I what you want?”

“Oh, Harry.” Zayn’s hand comes up, his finger tracing over Harry’s cheek, pushing his hair out of his face. “How could you not be?”

That’s enough. Harry’s waited enough. He leans down, or maybe Zayn pushes up, and then they’re kissing. It’s not like it was back in Bradford, on Zayn’s bed. There are no tears, no fear. Just Zayn and Harry, Zayn’s hand on the back of Harry’s neck, Harry’s hair falling around them like it’ll keep out the world.

And god, it’s so much better than before, now that there’s intent, that it’s not just comfort. Zayn’s lips are hot on his, and Harry wants more so he nips at Zayn’s lip, then licks it like he’s watched Zayn do a thousand times. Zayn’s mouth opens, and then Harry can really explore his mouth, all the hidden parts of him Harry wants to find and claim.

Zayn groans into Harry’s mouth, then suddenly they’re rolling so Harry’s on his back and Zayn’s on top without breaking the kiss, their bare chests rubbing against each other, their hips grinding. It’s even better like this, because now Harry’s not distracted by silly things like keeping himself up and can explore the skin of Zayn’s back, all the muscle he’s watched and can touch now.

Zayn’s lips break away from Harry’s, and Harry grabs his hair to bring him back except now he’s kissing down Harry’s neck and Harry is definitely a fan of that, or Zayn’s lips hot over his pulse point. “No marks,” he manages to get out, which is really a lot of presence of mind when you’ve got Zayn’s tongue circling your nipple and can only really think to arch up into him.

Zayn lifts his head. His hair’s mussed from Harry’s hands, his lips swollen from Harry’s kisses, and he’s smiling, something silly and hot all at once. “No marks, or no marks where people can see?”

“Um—” Zayn’s teeth nip at his hips, and Harry can’t keep back his moan. “Where people can see, definitely that one, that one please!”

Zayn chuckles, and he probably means it to be dark and low, but it’s too happy for that. “God, Harry,” he says, as his tongue traces around Harry’s navel and Harry’s hands fist in his hair for lack of anything else to do. “You’re so…”

“No, go on, please.” Harry props himself up on his elbows to grin at Zayn. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop smiling. “What am I?”

“Nice.”

“Nice?” Harry makes a face. “Not hot?”

“That too.” Zayn’s fingers are tight on Harry’s thighs, but he’s not moving anywhere, even when Harry wriggles his hips to get Zayn’s attention to the situation there. “But I wasn’t supposed to like you.”

“Too bad. I’m irresistible.” Screw being polite. Harry wants Zayn’s lips everywhere, wants to be naked already, wants everything here. “I’ve been told I’m more irresistible without clothes on.”

He expects another laugh, and probably another kiss, but Zayn glances away at that, bites his lip again. “Right.”

“Zayn?” Because he’s allowed to, Harry tugs Zayn up to bite his lip instead. He’s much better at it. He should probably do it all the time. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just—like, I don’t know what you—I mean, it’s—I haven’t—”

It takes Harry a second to parse, but then it’s his turn to laugh. “Been a while? How long?”

Zayn shrugs. It’s weird, seeing it this close. “Like, five years?”

“Five years!” Harry can’t help his shock. “But you look like—like you!”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have much time for that with a newborn,” Zayn retorts, suddenly sharper. “And when you have to work all the time to make ends meet and support her and your job usually ends up with not very attractive bruises and—”

Harry pushes, and either he catches Zayn off guard or Zayn lets him, but they roll again, so Harry’s poised above him and can look at Zayn’s face, the way he was going expressionless again, and here is not the place for that.  “Then I’ll ease you back in,” he says, and then can’t help giggling at the joke.

Zayn rolls his eyes, his lips twitching. “No, but, I might not be—I don’t know what you’re expecting, but you’ve probably had, like, a lot better, and I don’t—”

“It’ll be good,” Harry promises, kissing him to shut him up.

“But—”

“It’s you. That’s all I need.” Harry cuts him off again with a kiss, then gets up briefly to wriggle out of his pajamas and boxers. Zayn’s eyes go hot and dark as they sweep over Harry, over his thighs and ass and the cock that’s more than a little hard.

“Step one, be naked.” Harry smiles, dimpling. “It’s my favorite part.”

“It would be.”

“It’s better done in pairs,” Harry admits. “Well, or more, if that’s what you’re into. But with you, pairs.” He slides his fingers under the edge of Zayn’s pajamas, tracing the line of the gun down beneath the line of fabric. “Good on that step?”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s voice is hoarse, but he lifts his hips as Harry pulls off the rest of his clothes. Harry can’t help how his breath catches at the sight of this, of all of Zayn right here. It’s more than Harry ever expected, and his hands reach out of their own accord, tracing down Zayn’s ribs, over the heart at his hip, down over the ink high on his thigh, back up over the lines across Zayn’s stomach, old scars Harry wants to know the stories of later. He avoids Zayn’s cock, thick and hard, only because it’s distracting and he doesn’t want to ruin the delight of the rest of him.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry breathes, unable to keep it in.

“Not the beautiful thing here from where I’m sitting.”

“Then you’re sitting in the wrong place,” Harry retorts, but he can’t help his pleased smile. “This,” he goes on, and finally gets his hand on Zayn’s cock, stroking it once, “Is definitely beautiful.”

Zayn curses, his fingers tightening in the blankets, so his muscles stand out. Harry makes a satisfied noise, and does it again, until Zayn’s got a hand in his hair and is pulling him down for another kiss, somehow firm and gentle all at once, so it fills all of Harry with a warmth that has very little to do with how he’s getting achingly hard. 

Harry’s still smiling when he pulls back, watching Zayn’s face, his closed eyes, how his face is set like he’s savoring it. “Wanted to do that since I first saw you.”

“Hm?” Zayn hums, and opens his eyes long enough to tug Harry down again. “Wanted to do that since the first time you performed.”

“Told you I was irresistible,” Harry agrees, and pecks him on the lips once before he leans back to paw for his pants.

“What?” Zayn lifts himself up, looking almost worried. Harry could laugh. Like he’d ever look away from Zayn naked on his bed.

“Need some things,” Harry informs him. He unfortunately discovers he can’t keep looking at Zayn and get into his pants pocket, so he very reluctantly turns away. It’s almost made up for it, though, because when he turns back Zayn doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t eying Harry’s ass.

“Figured you might not have stuff.” Harry drops the sachet of lube and the condom on the bed next to Zayn. Then he pauses. “Not that you have to. We don’t have to—whatever you want. I’ve been told I give amazing blow jobs, if—”

“Like I said.” Zayn’s hands slide up Harry’s legs to his waist, then down again to his hips, trailing heat behind them. “How could I not want you?”

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good.”

“I just—like I said, I haven’t—”

“And like I said.” Harry rips open the lube, coats his fingers before reaching behind him. “I’ll ease you in.”

“That’s still an awful joke,” Zayn retorts, but his eyes are wide as he watches Harry slide a finger into himself. It’s going to be Zayn inside him soon, Harry thinks, his gaze raking up and down Zayn’s body, from the hair stuck to his forehead to the way his nipples are pebbling on his chest, to the dark hair at his groin. Zayn. Finally.

Then, “C’mere,” Zayn mutters, and tugs Harry down to kiss him again. When Harry draws the fingers out of himself to add another, Zayn’s hand knocks his away. “I remember this bit.”

“Yeah?”  Harry smirks, and rolls to the side, off of Zayn so he can sprawl invitingly.

“Yeah.” Zayn urges his knees apart with that same inexorable gentleness, then crouches, and all at once Harry’s hit by his mouth on his cock and fingers cool with lube in him and Harry moans and bucks his hips into the hand Zayn’s got planted firmly on him to keep him down. He doesn’t know what to focus on, what to savor most; the feel of Zayn’s fingers in him, opening him up slowly and thoroughly, the feel of Zayn’s mouth on him, hot and wet and his tongue licking over his cock and so so so good, the sight of Zayn like that, all dark hair and cheekbones and broad shoulders. Then he crook his fingers, just right, and Harry can’t focus on anything else, swearing and groaning. He’s always had good stamina, but Zayn’s undoing that like he undoes anything else, and Harry doesn’t want to come until Zayn’s in him.

“Okay, I’m good,” he announces.

Zayn glances up, his eyes dark and hot through his lashes. His tongue runs out to lick some spit off his lips, and it’s the hottest thing Harry’s ever seen. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Harry’s never been more sure of anything in his life, he thinks; never been more sure than that he is ready for Zayn, in any way that means. “Yes!” he replies on a moan, as Zayn gives another thrust with his fingers, brushing Harry’s prostate. “Yes, fuck, yes, please, Zayn.”

“Good.” Zayn’s fingers slide out of Harry, and Harry’s left with a feeling of emptiness for a second before he’s distracted because Zayn’s kissing him again, and Harry can feel his cock hard against Harry’s thigh.

It’s a thorough kiss, but then Zayn’s drawing back. “You have—”

Harry fumbles next to him, but he produces the condom proudly. “There! Prepared.”

Zayn licks his lips again, as he looks at Harry, and it’s too much. Harry sits up, pushes a little so Zayn ends up on his back, so Harry can crawl on top of him again. Zayn’s hands are everywhere as he slides the condom onto him, slow almost soft touches up his thighs and over his stomach and his shoulders, tracing his hair line like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen.

Finally, they’re both ready, and Harry presses a final kiss to Zayn’s lips before he lines himself up, eases onto Zayn. His breath hisses out when the head breaches the first rim of muscle, and Zayn’s fingers tighten on his hips, like he’s reacting viscerally against anything that might cause Harry pain even if it’s something that’s going to be so good, but then Harry lets out a long breath and keeps going, until Zayn’s deep in him and Harry can feel him everywhere, and it’s the best thing Harry’s ever felt, as good as being on the stage and having a thousand people yell his name.

“Harry,” Zayn breathes, and yes, that’s better. The wonder in it, that Harry wants to echo, because Zayn’s so gorgeous like this, for Harry. “God, _Harry_.”

“Good? Remembering?” Harry teases. Zayn pinches at his hip in retaliation, and Harry circles his hips back. It backfires, a bit, because it hits both of them, and then Harry can’t not start to move, fucking up and down on Zayn’s cock as Zayn’s hips rise to meet him. Zayn’s fingers are tight on his hips, tight enough that Harry hopes they bruise, and his mouth is open and all his muscles are tense and tight. There’s something amazing about that, that Harry’s doing this to him, Harry’s making those strong, powerful muscles go rigid, that he’s going to make them go lax like nothing else can.

Zayn’ muttering things Harry can’t understand, doesn’t even know if it’s English, his whole body taut, and Harry’s not much better. His legs are burning but it’s worth it, for the way he’s on fire with pleasure, with Zayn, with how Zayn feels in him and how they’re moving together. Like they’re in sync, like they can never get out of sync, like Harry’s taking Zayn higher than he’s ever gone, places he’s never gone.

“Not gonna last,” Zayn pants out. “You’re too—”

“It’s okay. I’ll pretend to be impressed anyway.” Harry smirks, circles his hips in a way that drives guys crazy.

“You’ll be impressed,” Zayn repeats, then he must do some sort of wrestling move because suddenly Harry’s on his back with Zayn above him, over him, around him, one hand braced next to his head and the other wrapped around Harry’s cock, moving over him in the same rhythm Zayn’s fucking into him. Zayn’s hand is rough and calloused and the way it scrapes over Harry’s cock makes him moan until Zayn swallows the sound with his mouth, or maybe Zayn just moans into his mouth as well, and Harry’s toes are curling with the feel of it.

Harry can feel when Zayn breaks, feels it in how his muscles stiffen and his hips jerk, in the shaking of his limbs as he falls onto Harry’s chest, as his hand stops on Harry. Harry’s so close—but this just makes it better, watching Zayn as he comes, watching his face screwed up in the crest of pleasure and his pink lips go slack and his eyes flutter shut.

He just lies on Harry’s chest for a moment, his face buried in Harry’s neck, and Harry would love to keep him there forever, he would, but the weight of him is hot and persistent, a reminder that Zayn’s right here, and he smells like sweat and musk and himself and Harry can’t help squirming, even as he cards a hand through Zayn’s sweaty hair.

“You’re amazing,” Zayn breathes, finally, lifting his head to kiss him. Harry can’t help his whine, even though he’s trying not to push anything, because he thinks Zayn just has to kiss him more to get him to come—but then Zayn’s moving, pulling out, and it’s the worst, even though Harry knows it’ll get uncomfortable fast if he stays where he is. “You’re, so, Harry—”

He shakes his head, then kisses him again, before he slides back down Harry’s body. He’s barely gotten his mouth on Harry before Harry comes, because Harry’s been on the edge and he’s thought about Zayn’s lips since the beginning. Zayn swallows, which is only hotter, having Zayn still around him as he thrusts helplessly into his mouth, his hand still wringing the last of his orgasm out of him, and Harry can’t think can’t speak can’t do anything but feel.

After, Zayn gives Harry stomach a final kiss, then he’s far too far away so Harry urges him back up, so he can curl into Zayn because he’s allowed to, can cuddle up to him without having to sneak into it. Harry breathes in, and he smells like Zayn, feels like him. Harry can even taste the muscles of his shoulder with his tongue, traces over the tattoo there almost idly.

“That was…”

Zayn trails off, but Harry fills in for him. “Amazing.”

“Yeah.” When Harry glances up at him, Zayn’s smiling, soft and lazy. His hand is in Harry’s hair, combing through it steadily, and it feels so good and soothing and calm. “But I was going to say, like, unexpected.”

“Really?” Harry guesses it was. Although he’s pretty sure he was the most obvious person in existence. “But not unwanted?” he adds, trying not to sound worried. He’s not. That was amazing, and Zayn wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t wanted, if he just meant to hurt Harry.

“’Course not.” Zayn’s arm wraps tighter around him, like he can keep Harry against him always. “I mean, Harry, I—like, you just—I never thought you could want me.”

“Have you looked at you?” Harry counters, nosing at Zayn’s throat, because he can. Because his stubble feels scratchy and good against Harry’s cheek. Because he’s tired, now, and Zayn’s hand is soothing in his hair, and just like last time Zayn’s warm and safe around him. “And you saved my life. It’s only fair.”

“Harry—”

“Shush.” Harry cuts him off with a kiss, then rolls over so he can nestle back into Zayn. This time, he doesn’t have to be subtle, doesn’t have to pretend what he’s going for; Zayn wraps around him immediately, and his hand rests over Harry’s on Harry’s chest. His breath’s warm on Harry’s neck, his chest solid against Harry’s back, and it’s no time at all before Harry’s asleep.

\---

 For the second morning in a row, Harry wakes up feeling warm, with Zayn still pressed against his back. This time it’s even better, because he’s sore in all the best ways, and he didn’t sneak into his cuddle. This cuddle is his, and maybe, once he wakes up a bit more, he’ll be able to get more too, trace all the tattoos he couldn’t last night, try all the things he’s imagined about Zayn.

For now, though, he just rolls over, trying to disturb Zayn as little as possible. He knows he’s smiling sappily, but he can’t help it. Zayn’s lovely like this, his features sharply defined but relaxed, his cheeks flushed with sleep, his mouth open just a bit. He looks younger, like he was back in Bradford. Harry just wants to curl back into him, to nuzzle into his neck and just stay there forever.

But right now, he has to piss. So he once more disentangles himself from Zayn, gets up and leaves the room with another lingering glance back. He can still barely believe it happened. That he’d done that, that Zayn had wanted—that Zayn hadn’t just accepted, he’d seemed to want Harry too. Seemed like maybe, after all those months, he had been looking at Harry as much as Harry had wanted him to be. That he wouldn’t mind if Harry grabbed on and never let go.

Harry pisses, then washes his hand. He’s still smiling, he sees in the mirror. He doesn’t think he could ever stop. It’s just…it’s Zayn. Zayn, who’s everything Harry’s ever wanted. He can see it now, holding Zayn’s hand for real as they go through towns, showing Zayn everything in the world there is to see. Taking him to LA, showing him Harry’s house there, fucking him in all the different rooms and probably the pool too. Red carpets with Zayn in a crisp suit next to him, smiling proudly as Harry talks to interviewers.

And London too, home too. Picnics in the park, waking up together, watching movies and cooking dinner. Laela running in to jump on their bed to wake them up, Harry taking her out to play so Zayn can sleep. He can see it, running forward into the future, running forward together.

Forever. Forever, he thinks. He wants that, with Zayn. Wants the forever, wants Zayn and Laela and a life with them. Wants to give them everything he has, to make them smile.

Except…what does he know about forever? Harry sees his face fall, as his fingers close around the sink. He’s never done forever in his life. Like Zayn had said, had accused him. He’s never stuck around anywhere, never really known a place of his own. Even his house in LA doesn’t have much of him in it; it can’t really, with how he’s barely ever there. He wants that forever with Zayn, he does, but…what if he can’t? What if he doesn’t know how, and he messes up, and then it might mess up Laela and Zayn both and…

Harry shakes his head, dries his hands, and goes back to the bedroom. No. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He will be.

Zayn’s still in bed, but he blinks as Harry walks back in, smiles sleepily, softly, like he had smiled at Laela when she woke him up from a nap. It hits Harry right in the heart. He never wants Zayn not to smile like that. And he…he doesn’t know how to do that. How to keep that smile in Zayn’s eyes, rather than watch him go blank and empty like he had in that Italian hotel room. Harry can’t be sure he knows how to do forever.

“Hey,” Zayn says. His voice is rough and husky, and it shivers over Harry. He never wants to stop hearing it. “Where’d you go?”

“Hey.” Harry glances at the bed. But if he sits down, he’ll just cuddle into Zayn again, he knows it. He doesn’t have that sort of willpower, to resist a sleepy morning Zayn. And he can’t. He needs to keep Zayn from hurting, and Harry will hurt him, he doesn’t know how to give Zayn what he wants, what he can. He doesn’t know how to make a home, or to stay there. “So, last night was fun.”

“Fun?” Zayn sits up. He must see something’s wrong, because his brow furrows, and the softness is leeching out of him, leaving only a bemused sort of tension. “Yeah, suppose it was.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles. It feels painful, the sort of smile he’d give an interviewer who’s asking questions he doesn’t want to answer, but he has to do this. “Good to finally get that out of the way.”

“Out of the way?” Zayn echoes. His face is freezing, going expressionless like it does when he’s wary, and Harry wants to just climb onto the bed again, kiss him until he’s smiling and laughing and Harry’s again. But he can be better than that. He can be.

“Yeah, like, break the tension and all.” Harry nods knowledgably. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah. But Zayn.” It’s an interview, Harry thinks, the hardest one he’s ever had to give, and Zayn’s the host who needs to know the parts of the truth that Harry wants him too. “Zayn, you know, we can’t do this.”

“Of course.” Zayn doesn’t move a muscle. It’s like a black hole, his stillness, and Harry clenches his fists at his side against the urge to stop. This is what’s best, it’s better to do this now then later when he’d break more than just Zayn. “I didn’t—like, of course. Of course you wouldn’t. Yeah.”

“Good! Glad you agree.” Harry leans down to pick up the sweatpants on the floor. “I’m going to go to the gym, I’ll see you at breakfast before we leave.”

“Take Chris.”

“I know.” Of course he’s still looking out for Harry, even now. Why does he have to be so perfect? If he had been less perfect, none of this would have happened, and Harry’s heart wouldn’t be shattering under his own hammer. He turns to go. Then he stops, glances back. Zayn’s still in bed, the blankets they’d slept together under spread out over him. When he meets Harry’s eyes though, he looks blank, like he only does when he’s pushing everything else down. He’s always been a shit liar. “Zayn? It was…” What to say? It was everything. Harry’s never going to have another night like it, ever.

“Fun, I know.”

“Amazing,” Harry corrects, and Zayn doesn’t seem to have anything to add, so Harry closes the door behind him. Then he walks quickly to his room, shuts that door, and sinks down to the floor, his head thumping back against the wood of the door, his arms wrapped around his knees. He’s so stupid. So stupid. How had he done that? How had he slept with Zayn at all, opened up those doors, when he knows he can’t risk Zayn like that? He’s just a feckless kid, roaming around the world, and he’s always liked it that way, rootless. He doesn’t know all the things Zayn does, doesn’t have those deep roots, the daughter and friends and family to always come back to, to yearn after. He wouldn’t know what to do with them. He’d just mess it up.

He doesn’t cry. But it’s a long time before he can get up.

\---

Zayn’s not at breakfast. It’s not entirely unexpected, because Harry did, well, he did sort of just one night stand him when he has to work with him, which maybe wasn’t the best idea. But Harry eats his food quickly, then goes back upstairs to grab his bags to take to the bus. Zayn’s door is closed; he must already be downstairs. It’s probably for the best. Harry doesn’t know what he’d do if he saw him right now. They’ll find a way back to what they were, to friends and coworkers, and Harry will just pine in peace, but maybe they need some space first.

But he’s not at the bus, not milling outside, and he’s not inside the other bus when Harry glances in. Chris is the one trailing him, and when Harry mentions that’s odd, he just gives Harry a look Harry can’t interpret.

Finally, Harry can’t stand it anymore, and goes to Paul. “Hey,” he asks, sidling up to him where Paul’s checking things off on a clipboard. “Where’s Zayn?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Paul makes a very pointed mark on the clipboard. “He left.”

“Left?”

“Gave his two week’s notice, but he pointed out he did the job he was hired for, so there wasn’t much point keeping him around. It made sense. I agreed he could go now.”

Harry clutches at nothing, reels back. There’s no Zayn to catch him, to steady him, so he does stumble. But. “He quit?” Harry echoes. He can barely hear himself. Can barely hear anything, over the roaring in his ears. Zayn just left? Without even saying good bye? Just went away, just left Harry?

“Yes. He quit.” Paul looks up from his clipboard, his eyebrows raised. He’s not actually saying ‘I told you so’, but it’s pretty clear he’s thinking it. He should be thinking it. Zayn’s gone. Harry hadn’t—he wasn’t supposed to leave. He was supposed to stay, and they were going to be friends and he would keep watching Harry and Harry would still make sure he didn’t need anything. “You wouldn’t happen to know why?”

“Paul, I…” There aren’t excuses. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s maybe the second time in his life that’s ever happened, and it’s all Zayn’s fault.

Paul’s face softens. “Get on the bus, Harry,” he tells him, and it’s not unkind. He must know something Harry doesn’t, because he should be unkind. It’s all Harry’s fault. Harry’s fault for falling for Zayn, for sleeping with him without thinking about the after. “You don’t have anything today until this evening.”

“Yeah.” Harry somehow ends up on the bus. It’s empty, because Paul’s leaving him alone, and everyone else of course wouldn’t go with him. Just Zayn would, that stable, calm place on the couch, ready to laugh with or at Harry if he needed it, or just to sit there and be with him if he didn’t. It’s empty, that place. The whole bus.

Pulling out his phone is instinct. But no matter how his finger hovers over Zayn’s number, he can’t. This is best, even if it hurts. This way Harry’s the one who’s hurting, not Zayn. Instead, he hits another contact, and huddles on the side of the couch Zayn usually favors as it rings. A book Zayn had finished the last time they were in here is still on the table. Harry resists smelling it, to see if it still holds something of Zayn in it. He’s not entirely that pathetic.

“Harry?” Niall answers. There’s a lot of noise behind him; he’s clearly in the restaurant. “Can you call back? I’m at work.”

Harry swallows. He doesn’t want to mess up Niall’s night, but he needs to talk to someone. And Zayn’s not there to hold him and tell him everything’s okay, he’ll be okay. “Can you take a second?” he asks.

“That bad? Then yeah, sure.” There’s more noise, then a door closes and it’s silent except for Niall’s breathing. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, that bad?” Harry asks, instead of saying what’s wrong. He just…getting the words out will make it real. He did the right thing, he repeats to himself. He did. He was being an adult, being mature.

“I mean you don’t actually talk about your feelings unless it’s bad.”

“That’s—”

“And I know your tricks,” Niall goes on, inexorable. Harry ducks his head, rests his forehead on his knees. He doesn’t want Niall on the phone. He wants Zayn to be holding his shoulders, telling him to look at him, that everything will be all right. “What’s wrong?”

He can say it. “Zayn left.”

“Like, vacation? Because if you can’t be away from him that long—”

“No, he quit. He went home.”

“Home?” Niall echoes. “Didn’t he have to give notice?”

“Yeah, he had vacation time or something, I don’t know.”

There’s a beat of silence, as Harry closes his eyes tight and Niall thinks or something. Then, “What’d you do?”

“Why do you think I did something?”

“Because a guy like Zayn doesn’t quit his job without something happening,” Niall answers easily.

“How do you know what kind of guy Zayn is?”

“Because you’ve told me for the past three months.” Niall laughs. “I think I know his shoe size, by now.”

“Shut up. He left,” Harry repeats. “He wasn’t supposed to leave.”

“What’d you do?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “I slept with him.”

“You were that bad?”

“No!” Harry snaps. “No, it was…magical.” He decides, and even now he’s smiling to think of it. “Like, amazing. He—”

“TMI,” Niall interrupts. “I know enough of what you get up to from sharing a wall. So if it wasn’t bad, why’d he leave? Did you get ditched? Didn’t think that happened to you.”

“No.” Harry smiles again, even though it hurts. At Zayn’s smile, when he had woken up and seen Harry. He can live off of that for years, he thinks. That Zayn had smiled at him like there was no one he’d rather see in the world. “No, he’d have stayed. He said he’d wanted me for a while too.”

“Then what happened? Because it sounds like you should be going at it like bunnies.”

“I told him it couldn’t happen again.”

“Harry!”

“It can’t!” Harry rushes on. He needs Niall to understand, needs him to get it so he can comfort Harry and understand why. Niall will if anyone will, he knows. “I don’t know how to do more than that, and he’s got a daughter, Niall. I can’t make promises to her and then break them.”

“You’ve been gone on this bloke for months! And you told him you didn’t want to have sex again?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. That I couldn’t. But, I said. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I’m being responsible. I’m thinking ahead.”

“Ahead to what?”

“To when I leave!”

“Were you planning on leaving?”

“No!” Harry grabs the phone tighter, so he doesn’t throw it across the room like he wants to. “No, I wasn’t planning on it. But I’ve never…I haven’t settled down anywhere since I was sixteen. I haven’t had a real home since I was sixteen. Zayn’s all about home. I don’t know how to do that. How to stay.” He takes a deep breath, but it makes sense as he says it. He’s right. “And so eventually I’d leave, or mess things up, and then it’d be really bad. And I don’t want to do that to Zayn, or Laela. So I stopped it now. But he wasn’t supposed to leave! We were supposed to be friends still. He was supposed to still be here!”

It bursts out of him, that cry. Zayn’s supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be here with Harry, to keep Harry safe and centered and warm. He’s supposed to be here so Harry can keep him safe and take care of what he can’t.

He takes a long, rasping breath. He hasn’t cried, but he feels drained like he has.

“You’re an idiot.”

“What?” Harry demands. He’d wanted comfort, not insults.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Harry,” Niall repeats. “The guy you’ve been into tells you he wants more, and you say no? Idiot.”

“No, I was being—”

“Haz, I’ve been friends with you since we were twelve. You gave me money to start a restaurant even though it’s mad that I have one this young. Why do you think you won’t stick around?”

“That’s different,” Harry mutters. “Zayn’s got two friends living with him, raising his kid. I didn’t even come back when you had your surgery.”

“’Cause I didn’t need you,” Niall retorts. “That’s not how we are, mate. Doesn’t mean we aren’t as close as those fuckers. We still win all the three-legged races.”

Harry snorts despite himself. They’ve never won a three-legged race in their lives. Harry’s always been too clumsy for it, and Niall cracks up whenever he falls rather than helping him up.

“Look, Haz.” Niall’s voice is serious, pointed like it so rarely is. “You might be off flitting around all over the place all the time. But you come back.”

“I might not, though,” Harry argues, “And it doesn’t matter if it’s you. But if it’s Zayn, or Laela…”

“Thanks for that. But look. Do you want to take it all on? The kid, and all?”

“Yes,” Harry answers without hesitation. “But—”

“But nothing. Stop being an idiot, and man up. If you don’t want to leave you won’t.”

“It’s not that simple.” Niall always likes things to be simple, is good at making them simple, but Harry can’t be sure of that, and he can’t risk it. Not when Zayn’s the one on the line.

“It can be.”

“And anyway,” Harry keeps going, because Niall can’t be right, he can’t be. He made the right decision. “He’s gone. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Then go get him back. You can run through an airport or summat.” Niall chuckles, probably at the thought. Harry doesn’t, though. It’s not funny. It’s not this easy. “Okay, I’ve got to go, Haz. But really. Stop being an idiot. You’re a good friend, and you’d be a good boyfriend and father and whatever. So if you don’t want to go get smashed and fuck out your sorrows, go get him back. I want godchildren to spoil.”

“Niall—”

“Later!” Niall hangs up before Harry can retort. Harry glares at the phone, then throws it across the room onto the chair. Luckily, the chair is close enough, or big enough, that he hits it, and it doesn’t break on the floor. Or not luckily. He doesn’t care if his phone breaks. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, if they’re all going to be mean and not comfort him like he needs. And it’s not like Zayn will call.

He glances over to the mini-fridge, where he knows a handle of vodka’s stored. He could get smashed, do the proper rock star thing and get smashed then go out and find someone to fuck until he forgets about Zayn and his hands and his skin and how he had looked at Harry, eyes dark and needy. It’s how he’s gotten over his relationships before, the short lived things that have floated in and out of his life for a month or two. But he really doesn’t want to. He won’t get Zayn out from under his skin that easily. He doesn’t want Zayn out from under his skin.

But he can’t have been wrong. He knows himself, and he can’t be sure. Can’t be sure he’s worth it, that the mess that comes with him, the cameras and the spotlight and the invasiveness and even the danger, is worth it if he might leave. If he might end up not being able to do long-term, if in a few months he’ll get itchy feet again.

Harry closes his eyes. He can almost pretend Zayn’s here, sitting on the couch. That he’s back in Bradford, with Zayn reading to Laela next to him. That they’re in a hotel, watching a movie with popcorn between them. He’s never wanted to leave that. Never minded that he wasn’t out go-go-going, that he was staying still.

He closes his eyes, and thinks of what it would feel like to have that all the time. To come home from rehearsal to Laela doing homework with Zayn, for Zayn to glance up and smile at him. To be able to say in interviews that yes, he has a boyfriend. To dedicate songs to him on stage, to call him from the road, to want him here so desperately but know that he’s waiting back home.

He wants that. God, he wants that, the man and the child and the home he can come back to. But the wanting’s so new, the urge for permanence. He’s just so fucking terrified that he can’t do it.

So he gets up, drags himself to the fridge, and opens the door. He can take part of Niall’s advice, at least.

\---

Harry tweets some ambiguously sad lyrics, then manages to sleep for most of the rest of the ride. He tries not to think about how much more comfortable it was to sleep in Zayn’s arms, and gets a pretty decent nap in, so he’s gotten himself together by the time they pull into the next venue. He hops off the bus with a bright smile for the fans lined up there, waves to them as Chris escorts him inside. He’s not even thinking about how there’s no comforting hand on his back when someone in the crowd yells,

“Where’s the hot bodyguard?”

Harry manages a grin. “You saying this one isn’t hot?” he calls back, and everyone, including Chris, laughs as they get inside.

Chris pauses when they get inside, his mouth opening like he’s going to say something. But instead he just pats Harry on the shoulder, a little awkwardly, before he wanders off, leaving Harry on his own. Now even security is feeling bad for Harry. Did Harry keep his crush—or not a crush, not anymore—secret from anyone?

Apparently not, because people keep on giving him sympathetic looks as they walk by. Harry probably has somewhere he should be, or somewhere he could be, he usually does at a venue, but he’s not sure what it is. He could go find Lou and Caroline, but he really doesn’t want to face their pity. He’s not even sure it would be pity, from Caroline at least; he has a suspicion Zayn’s her new favorite and she might realize it’s Harry’s fault. He could go find the band, but he’s not in the mood for jokes. He’s just…at a loss. In a way he’s never been backstage, this place that should be home for him. That has been home for him, for the past five years, that now feels a little…flat, after remembering how it had felt to sit with Zayn and Laela in Bradford. After remembering how Zayn’s skin felt.

“Hey, Harry.” Harry spins; Paul’s there, with his trusty clipboard and his trusty face, that’s been there for as long as Harry’s been here.

“Paul!” just because, Harry gives him a big hug. Because he’s there, because he’s always been there.

“Easy, Styles,” Paul chuckles, but the look he gives Harry is knowing, like he knows exactly why Harry needed to hug him just then. “I’ve got a wife.”

“Details.” Harry retorts. Paul shakes his head despairingly.

“Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know—the guy confessed.”

“The guy?”

“The one sending you threats. He confessed to everything. He used to work in intel, so he was hacking Syco’s computers to find your itinerary. He’ll be extradited to the UK, and then we’ll have him locked up.” Harry nods, swallows. It’s good to hear. He feels lighter, with it, with the sure knowledge that he’s safe. “And I wanted to say,” Paul goes on, with the look he used to give Harry when he’d diverted a question cleverly in an interview, or when he had a particularly good show. “You’ve handled this whole thing really well. Malik was right to tell you.”

“Thanks.” It should make Harry feel better, the way Paul’s praise always does. It does. But also, “Even though I did sleep with Zayn?”

Paul’s eyebrows rise, but stay low enough that it’s obvious he already knew. Harry’s not surprised about that. Paul probably knows him better than he knows himself, at this point. “Honestly, I figured that for a forgone conclusion, once I saw how you were looking at each other. But you’ve been mature and self-possessed, and I’ve been really impressed.”

“I don’t sleep with everyone I’m attracted to,” Harry retorts.

“That’s not how you were looking at him, Harry.” Paul softens. Harry hasn’t seen him like this in years, it feels like, since Harry was on his first tour, seventeen and lost, and Paul gave him someone to rely on. “I’ve known you since you were a kid, and you’ve never looked at someone like you looked at him.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry glances down, bites at his lip. Zayn apparently gave him that, too. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Apparently not.” Harry winces, at Paul’s frank tone. He knows it doesn’t matter, that he’s doing the right thing here, but it still hurts to hear it. “Though I don’t see why not,” Paul continues, then. When Harry glances over at him, he’s not looking at Harry, staring off at some stagehands instead. “He never did look away from you.”

“Yeah, but, I…” If he can’t tell Paul, who can he tell? Paul’s seen the worst Harry’s done, cleaned up after it. “I don’t think I can. Like, have a home, like he needs. I don’t really know how to, like, have roots. So it’s better I not try, right? In case it doesn’t work? In case I can’t be enough for him?”

Paul sighs gustily, as put upon as whenever Harry asks him for something totally reasonable like more bananas. But he hunches down, like he did when Harry was a scared teenager, so Harry has to look him in the eye. “Two things,” He says, “Then I’m going to go make sure you have a show to do tonight. First, if he thought you were the sort of person he could introduce to his kid, that’s his choice, not yours. Second.” Paul’s hand tightens on Harry’s shoulder, his own sort of anchor. “I’ve watched you grow up for a long time, Harry. And I’ve seen you learn how to do things that aren’t easy, and you did them just by sheer stubbornness. Most kids would have burnt out by know, you know? But you held on. So if you think you won’t learn how to settle down, to hold onto something—I think you’re wrong, and you’re letting a good thing slip through your fingers.” Paul shrugs again, and lets go of Harry to straighten up. “But what do I know?”

Harry blinks. Somehow, it’s different hearing Paul say it. Paul’s not Niall; he’s been here through everything, he’s seen Harry. He’s the one person Harry has kept, the one person who’s always been a part of this home Harry’s made of arenas and stages and stadiums. “You think I can?” he asks.

Paul looks up from his clipboard, his gaze serious. “I think you’re a good man, Harry. And I think Zayn knew that too.”

“I…” Harry’s not sure what to say. He’d said those things, he’d driven Zayn away, for Zayn’s sake. He knew that. For Zayn’s sake and for Laela’s, because he didn’t want to hurt them, didn’t ever want to hurt them. He wouldn’t ever hurt them. Paul said he wouldn’t, and Paul didn’t lie, Paul knew him inside and out. Zayn hadn’t thought he would, and Zayn had seen right through him from the instant they met, had known him through and through. He—maybe he could do this. Maybe he wouldn’t let himself not.

“I need to go back to London,” Harry finishes. He can take Niall’s advice now, he needs to sweep Zayn off his feet, give him a romantic gesture to make up for what Harry had said. He needs…a skywriter, or maybe a boombox, or a twelve-piece band, or—

“Do you?” Paul asks, evenly. Harry glares—then sees his pen tap at his clipboard. Shit. He can’t go to London, he has shows and interviews and those have to come first. That’s what being an adult is. If he’s not going to let a threat to his life get in the way of his performing, he can’t let Zayn. No matter how much he wants to.

“When’s the next time I have a long enough break?” he asks. Paul glances at his clipboard, flips a few pages, as Harry bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Two weeks,” Paul informs him. He’s not looking up from his clipboard, but Harry knows he’s grinning. “You’ll need flights to London then, I assume?”

“Yes please!” Harry agrees, and gives Paul a final hug before running off to find Lou for advice on Romantic Gestures.

\---

It takes Harry two weeks, maybe a dozen unanswered texts, five unanswered voicemails, and a long plane ride that has Harry nibbling at his fingernails like he hasn’t since he was twelve, but eventually he ends up in front of a metal door, staring at the doorbell like it’ll ring itself. He’s never been here. He’s never been here, in Zayn’s space. And Zayn’s angry at him. He knows Zayn’s angry at him, because of all those unanswered texts and calls. He never ignored Harry when they were…working together. And he knows because he should be, because Harry had driven him away. 

But that’s why Harry’s here, and why he has a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hands, daisies and sunflowers and other brightly colored flowers he doesn’t know the name of. It’s going to be everywhere tomorrow, probably, how Harry Styles bought a bouquet of flowers and must have a someone, but he doesn’t care. If it all goes wrong, he can say he gave it to his mom or something. If it goes right…he and Zayn can talk about it. Maybe he can for once confirm it, can smile at an interviewer when asked about pictures of Zayn and him and just say, “Yeah, isn’t my boyfriend cute?”

It’s that thought that gets him to push the doorbell. It rings loudly enough Harry can hear it from outside, and Harry almost jumps. He’s okay, though, he informs himself. He’s stood in front of audiences a thousand-strong, he can apologize to one man. Even if it’s Zayn.

There are the sounds of feet, then, “Who is it?” Laela calls.

“It’s Harry,” Harry tells her. He switches the hand holding the bouquet.

The door swings open. Laela’s in a yellow sundress, her hair a thick braid down her back, and she looks much healthier than the last time Harry saw her. She also looks a lot more suspicious, her eyes narrowed.

“Hi.” Harry grins at her, his most disarming grin. “Can I come in?”

“Uncle Louis says you’re why baba’s been sad,” she tells him accusingly, her jaw jutting out. “He says you’re a—”

“Let’s not repeat what Uncle Louis said.” Liam appears from behind her, scooping her up into his arms. “Lae, you know you’re not supposed to answer the door on your own.”

“But it was Harry! I know Harry.”

“Yeah, but…” Liam trails off, glancing at Harry. But he’s not sure Zayn wants to see him, is what he’s pretty clearly not saying. “But he could have been lying,” Liam finishes. “You’ve always got to have an adult around before you open the door.”

Laela lets out a gusty, put upon sigh. “Okay,” she agrees, then turns that glare back to Harry. It’s a little frightening, actually. “Did you make baba sad?”

“Yes,” Harry admits. There’s a part of him, a tiny part, that’s made happy by hearing that. That Zayn wanted him enough to be sad, not just mad. But most of him just hurts with the knowledge. That Zayn had been hurting and instead of making it better, it was because of him. “But now I want to try to fix that. Do you think that’s okay?”

He’s clearly asking Laela, not Liam. This is important too, that he wins Laela back over. She crosses her arms over her chest. Perched in Liam’s arms, she looks like a queen on her throne. “Why’d you make baba sad?”

“Because I was very stupid.” Liam snorts. He’s clearly heard the whole story. “And I was afraid.”

“You shouldn’t be afraid,” she informs him knowledgably. “I wasn’t, and then baba said because I wasn’t we could go to the beach soon even though he doesn’t like it.”

“I know. But we aren’t all as brave as you.” Harry swallows. “Do you think I could talk to your baba?” he asks again. He needs to talk to Laela, but Zayn’s so close, and it’s been too long.

She bites on her lip, a perfect echo of Zayn’s expression, then sets her jaw. “Are you going to make him sad again?”

“I hope not.” Harry’s fingers close over the flowers. His palm is sweaty. “I want to make him happy again.”

“Laela.” Harry freezes at the sound of the voice behind Liam. It’s not the same as his voicemail message, it’s a thousand times better in person—the rich, smooth sound, how it wraps around the vowels of his daughter’s name. Harry almost doesn’t want to look up, but he also needs to more than he’s ever needed anything more. So he looks up, over Liam’s shoulder—and there’s Zayn.

Everything in Harry’s heart gets lighter. He’s in sweatpants and a tank top, his hair loose around his shoulders. He hasn’t shaved for long enough that his cheeks are heavy with scruff that Harry can’t help but think would feel good scraped against his thighs. His eyes are bright hazel, gold, amber, Harry’s not sure, but they’re big as they look at Harry like he’s a mirage. He’s the most handsome person Harry’s ever seen, the best sight Harry’s ever seen.

“We’re going to the park,” Liam announces suddenly. Harry does jump, this time. He doesn’t know how long he was staring at Zayn for.

“But Uncle Liam—”

“We’ll see you two later,” Liam adds, pushing his feet into sandals. He leans down, still holding Laela, and grabs a pair of sandals for her too, then he slips around Harry, pushes him inside with a gentle nudge of his hips that has Harry stumbling slightly, and closes the door behind him.

Zayn’s still just staring at him, like he can’t believe he’s there. It’s filling the room, the silence between them, and not even Harry glancing around to take in the sitting room—a pretty normal place, couch and table and chairs, with the normal detritus of three men and a child living there—can fill it.

Finally, he glances down at his hands, sees the flowers there. “Oh! These were supposed to be for Laela.” He holds them up, like a peace offering.

“She’ll love them.” Zayn nods, so Harry nods, lets his hand fall back down.

Zayn’s not going to talk first. He shouldn’t, in the first place, because even if Zayn left it was Harry who made him leave, and also, his face is doing that thing where he goes expressionless, like he thinks he’s hiding behind it. Harry might have been fooled by it once, but he’s not anymore.

“I do,” he says, finally. Zayn tilts his head, so Harry barrels on. “I do. I want to make you happy. That’s all I want.”

Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, like Laela had. “You’ve got an interesting way of doing that.”

“I know.” Harry pushes his hair back, shifts on his feet. This is hard. This is harder than an interview, because he knows—he can’t lie anymore. He can’t lie, or divert, or not say what he means. He needs Zayn to understand everything, like no one has for years. “I…” He has to figure out how to say this, how to phrase it right so Zayn understands.

Instead, Zayn sighs. “Look, I get it, okay? I don’t expect anything from you. I didn’t expect anything. You don’t have to feel bad about it. I just…needed space, and you were safe, so I left. I should have said something, so I’m sorry about that. But you didn’t need to come.”

“Why didn’t you expect anything?” Harry asks. He wishes he could demand it, could be angry—but what if Harry was reading this wrong? What if Zayn didn’t expect anything, if Zayn did think he was just a kid, who was hot enough to sleep with and to be fond of but not to commit to, to help raise his daughter and be in his life and come home to.

“Like you said, hero gets his reward.” It hits Harry like a knife, the bitterness in the words, the way it twists at Zayn’s face so Harry clenches his fists against the urge to rush over there and kiss Zayn’s cheeks until it goes away. “I knew it wasn’t any more than that, or I should have, and—”

“But it was!”

“And,” Zayn goes on, like he didn’t hear Harry, “And that’s on me, because I know, I’m just some guy who hits things for a living, and you’re—you’re famous and beautiful and lovely and nice and I—shouldn’t have thought—I couldn’t have imagined—it was stupid. And that’s on me.”

That’s it, they’re too far away, and Zayn is hurting and Harry can’t stand for that. He sets the flowers down on a table, then takes a few strides closer to Zayn. He’s still not touching Zayn, but he doesn’t want to do that before Zayn wants him to, before he’s explained. Zayn sways back, but he doesn’t retreat, and that’s something.

“It’s not. I was the one who said those things, but I was lying, Zayn.” Harry tries to put all the earnestness he’s ever known into the words, all the honesty he’s maybe never shown. “It meant—it meant everything to me. You’re everything. And you aren’t just some bloke who hits things,” Harry adds, and this he can be fiery about. “You’re who kept me safe and sane and you’re an amazing dad and an amazing person and you’re—” Harry gulps down air, but he has to say it, has to get it out there, even if Zayn doesn’t reciprocate. “And I’m so in love with you. “

He can’t look at Zayn as he says it, can’t bear to see the expression on his face. “That night meant everything, I’d wanted it for so long and I was so afraid it would mess things up, and then it didn’t and it was mind blowing and I woke up and I just—I was afraid, you know? That I’d mess things up, that I wouldn’t know how to be everything you deserve, and I still might not. If you even want me, I mean, after everything, but I still might not but I’ll try, and—”

“Hey.” There are hands at Harry’s shoulders, roughly calloused hands Harry recognizes, and Harry looks up and Zayn’s there, so close, with his lips curved into something that’s almost a smile and his eyes bright and he’s right there, holding Harry up when he’s afraid.

“I’m not scared anymore.” Harry looks right into Zayn’s eyes as he says it, like his whole life is in them. “I love you. And I want—everything that is. And I’ll try my best not to mess it up.”

This close, he can see Zayn’s adam’s apple move. “In love with me?” he echoes. His hands are shaking a little against Harry’s skin. “You?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods firmly. “And, if you’re not it’s okay, we can try this, or if you don’t think you will be that’s fine too, I’ll go away, but I had to say it. I couldn’t let you stay thinking I felt what I had said.” Zayn’s still just staring at him, looking at him like he’s a wonder, and Harry can feel himself preening under the look but he also sort of needs an answer. “Do you?” he asks, quietly. “Do you think you could be in love with me?”

Zayn’s fingers tighten on his shoulders. “I—I never thought. You’re so—why?” he asks, at last, and the look he gives Harry is truly confused, and a little lost. “You’re so—and I’m just—”

“Zayn.” Now it’s Harry who reaches out, his hands on Zayn’s cheeks, holding his face there like he can push everything he feels through his fingers. “You’re not just. It doesn’t matter if you’re a bodyguard or whatever you wanted to be when you were twenty. I’m in love with you.” There’s hope there, a niggling hope growing out of how Zayn hasn’t pushed him away. “Do you?”

“I never imagined it’d be anything,” Zayn confesses, all in a rush, his gaze imploring. “You were just so nice and lovely and I couldn’t help falling for you but I never thought it’d be anything. I never meant to make it anything.”

“Falling for me?” Harry grins. It’s like everything in him has turned to sunlight, like he’s won X-Factor again, like he’s on stage and a thousand people are yelling his name, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” And for a second, Zayn’s whole face relaxes, and he smiles, bright and huge, his eyes crinkling and his nose wrinkled up and Harry can feel it through his skin. But then he sobers again, fast. “But, I mean, I’ve got Laela, and that’s a lot—and you’re only twenty-three, I can’t—”

“I’m not afraid.” Harry runs his thumbs over Zayn’s cheekbones. Zayn’s still quivering, and it’s just as heady now, this strong, proud man likes this because of Harry. Because of what he feels for Harry, and what Harry feels for him. “And I come with a lot of baggage too. You’ve seen. And it’d only get worse.”

“I don’t care.”

“It could get bad, for you and Laela, and you should think about that first, it’s not simple, even if I wish—”

There are lips on Harry’s cutting him off, and there’s a second where Harry tries to keep talking against it before he gets with the program. Zayn’s hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, pulling him closer, and Harry gets his around Zayn’s neck and holds on as their lips press together, as the kiss deepens until Harry’s pretty sure the only thing holding him up is Zayn.

Too soon, Zayn’s pulling back. He looks properly kissed, and Harry just wants to dive back in, to mark up his skin, to leave all the marks Zayn can’t. To trace all of Zayn’s scars and tattoos and muscles, all the things they didn’t before. But Zayn looks serious, through the swollen lips and messy hair and flushed cheeks. “For what it’s worth,” he says, almost solemn, “I love you.”

Harry can’t help his smile. It feels like that’s all he knows how to do, with Zayn saying those words. “It’s worth everything.” He tugs Zayn in to kiss him again. They’re moving, Harry notices vaguely, then Harry’s falling backwards onto the couch, and Zayn’s above him, his hands braced on either side of Harry’s head. He’s grinning, beaming, and Harry knows how he feels.

“So,” he says, grinning cheekily. “I was brave, coming here, telling you all this. Does this mean I get to come to the beach with you?”

“Hm?” It takes a second for Zayn to get it, which Harry takes gleeful credit for. “Yeah. I mean, if you want, and aren’t busy. You’re in America next, right?”

“No one said it had to be a British beach,” Harry points out, and pulls Zayn down before he can protest.

\---

Liam texts Zayn before they head back, so by the time they get back they look presentable enough to pass muster for a five year old. Though not for an adult, apparently, because Liam takes one look at them and rolls his eyes, though his lips twitch.

“Talked it over?” he asks, shutting the door behind them, but Harry’s attention’s caught by Laela running past him, jumping into Zayn’s lap where he’s sitting on the couch. 

“Baba!” she yells, bouncing when it looks like Zayn’s not looking at her. “I went on the big slide all by myself!”

“Wow!” Zayn blinks, shakes his head, then gives Laela his most serious look. “All by yourself?”

“Yep. It’s so tall. But I did it!”

“My big girl.” Zayn gives her a quick hug, then keeps holding on. “Next thing you know, you’ll be all grown up.”

“Nope, I’m still a kid,” she announces, then turns in her father’s lap, nestling against her back so she can glare at Harry. “Did you apologize? That’s what baba says I need to do when I make people sad.”

“It is,” Harry agrees, “And I did.” He picks up the flowers off the table. They’re still in good shape. “Now I want to apologize to you, for making your baba sad. So these are for you.”

She looks at the flowers, then up at Zayn, who nods, so she reaches out and grabs the flowers. “They’re pretty!” she giggles, smelling at them. “Baba, look!”

“Pretty flowers for a pretty girl,” Zayn agrees, running a hand down her hair. It’s filling up Harry’s heart, seeing Zayn with his daughter, just like it had before. “Do you want to go put them in water?”

“I want Harry to help!” she decides, and jumps off of Zayn’s lap, tugs Harry over to the kitchen where, under her direction, he selects a vase and runs some water into it.

“So, Laela,” Harry says, as he sets the flowers into the vase. “Would it be okay if I stayed around for a while?”

She purses her lips. “Are you going to be nice to baba?”

“Very nice.”

“And you won’t be a rat bastard anymore?”

“Laela!”

“It’s what Uncle Louis said!” she protests.

“Still, you shouldn’t say it.”

“Okay. But you won’t be one?”

“No. Or I’ll try my hardest not to be.”

She nods, very seriously, as she thinks it over. Harry tries not to be nervous. This maybe the most he’s ever cared about an answer, with this little girl who he wants so much to love him like he thinks he could love her.

“And will you teach me to sing like you do?”

Harry snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay then.” She pounds her hand on the table, and she probably doesn’t mean it to sound like a gavel but it does. “You can stay.”

“Good.” Harry accepts her decision with a straight-faced nod, his lips pressed together so he doesn’t smile.

Over her shoulder, Zayn’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He’s just looking at Harry, like he has so many times before, but this time he’s looking at Harry-and-Laela, and he’s got the soft, warm smile he had on when he watched his daughter sleep.

“Good,” Harry repeats, dimpling back at Zayn, holding tight to this feeling, this warmth, that’s spread to him, not like they’re keeping him here but like he doesn’t want to go anywhere else. “I hope I’ll stay a long time.”

\---

It’s a good turn out today. The fans are loud and energetic, not at all put off by the drizzle that started a bit through Harry’s second set, and that and the adrenaline means Harry isn’t either. He’s buzzing with it, bouncing around stage with the band, as he finishes his second to last song and does an overdramatic bow at the screams. It sets him a little off balance, but he catches himself and bows again, and the fans all laugh until Harry raises the mike again.

“Thank you L.A!” he starts, then pauses to make room for the cheers. His shirt is soaked to his skin, and his hair’s hanging lankly down his face, and there’s no where he’d rather be. “You’ve been great tonight.” He lowers his voice into a mock whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite city.” More cheers. Harry grins, and lets them taper off naturally. “But much as I love you all, I’m even more excited, because today I’ve got two very special visitors.” He keeps his eyes on the crowd, but they’re quiet, waiting. “So this one’s for you, babe. You’ll always be my hero.”

The crowd coos almost in unison, and Harry gives one of the cameras a hammy wink, then tucks his microphone between his legs to make a heart with his fingers. The crowd yells more, and the camera pans over them so they show up on screen, focusing in on a sign that says ‘ZARRY COULD TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT’. Harry laughs at it, then the band is playing and Harry lifts his microphone back to his lips.

Usually, Harry likes to end his concerts upbeat, with one of his poppier numbers, but tonight he knows he was right to choose this one. This song, that he wrote last summer, during those months when Zayn was so close and so far away, during those long bus rides when he was stealing looks and Zayn and wanting. Well now he has, and has for a year, and he still means everything he’s singing, all the words about beauty and love and need, about gentle hands and eyes that hold the world in them.

Then it’s over, and there’s a second’s hush before the crowd’s yelling and cheering, and Harry takes holds his arms out wide to take it all in, to thank the fans. He holds it for a minute, then turns to jog off while they’re still loud, lets it carry him off onto the wings.

Zayn’s the first thing he sees, leaning against a pillar, his lip between his teeth in the way he does when he’s got too many emotions for him to express. Harry laughs, and keeps jogging before he launches himself at Zayn, hitting him full speed.

Zayn catches him easily, his arms around Harry’s back as Harry’s lock around his neck, only swaying back a little as Harry buries his face in his neck, breathes him in. He didn’t get a chance to do this before the show, not really, because Zayn and Laela had only just gotten in before the show started, but he holds on tight now.

“Hey.” Zayn’s laughing, but he’s got a tight grip on Harry too, locking him in close. “Good to see you too, babe.”

“Less talking, more kissing,” Harry orders, then lifts up his face to do just that. It hasn’t even been that long since he’s been home; this was only a few weeks in L.A, and it’s summer so Laela and Zayn can join him here, but it’s still been too long. Zayn chuckles into his mouth, but he’s kissing him back, their lips moving easily together. It still makes Harry melt, and he still gets Zayn’s bright-eyed, brilliant smile when they separate, beaming at Harry.

Harry grins back, his dimples deep in his cheeks. “Like your dedication?”

Zayn’s smile doesn’t falter, but his brow furrows a bit. “Yeah, but are you sure…”

Harry rolls his eyes, and kisses Zayn again. “It’s L.A. I wouldn’t done it in the bible belt, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“You are.”

“Fine, I am.” Zayn shrugs. “I want to make sure you’re safe, if I can’t be here.”

Harry’s heart feels like it’s bursting, and he has to kiss Zayn again, because how else is he supposed to react? “This is what you get for giving up bodyguarding. No more following me around and beating people up for me.”

“We all have to sacrifice things.”

“Yeah, I have to sacrifice watching you punching a bag every morning. Do you know how hot that was?” Harry laughs, and finally lets go of Zayn. Not because he wants to, particularly, but because he’s going to get Zayn soaked through too, and he doesn’t want that. “Not that graphic designer you isn’t hot. But never say I haven’t made sacrifices.”

“Yes, you’re a martyr,” Zayn teases back, laughing. Harry sticks out his tongue, and grabs at Zayn’s hand. Zayn catches it, interlaces their fingers.

“Shut up. Where’s Laela?”

“She fell asleep in the green room. Time difference and all.”

“Yeah, you must be wiped. Come on.” Harry tugs on Zayn’s hand until they’re moving through backstage. He doesn’t let Zayn stop to say more than “hi” to Caroline. He doesn’t want to let go of Zayn, and he wants to see Laela.

Laela’s curled up on the couch when they finally get there, both her hands clutching at a piece of paper, her hair in the two braids she’s been favoring lately. Her eyelashes are as long as Zayn’s already, it feels like, shadowed against her cheeks. Harry stops in the doorway to look at her, Zayn wrapping an arm around his waist and dropping his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry absently grabs at his hand, holds it between both of his.

“I think she’s gotten bigger,” Harry whispers.

Zayn chuckles. “Six year olds do that.”

“Since last week?”

“Yep.” Zayn presses his lips to Harry’s jaw, then disentangles himself to go over to Laela. “Hey, jaan. Time to go.”

Her eyes flutter open, and instinctively she lifts up her arms for Zayn, who lets himself be pulled down next to her. “Is Harry done singing?”

“I am,” Harry agrees. She glances over, then the sleepiness is overwhelmed by a huge smile.

“Harry!” she yells, and it’s as sweet as any crowd’s cheer. He goes over to the couch, sits down on her other side. “Harry, we were on a plane and you were in a magazine and baba said we could keep it so I showed it to Hannah.”

“Hannah?”

“She was sitting next to me,” Laela explains, like it was obvious. “She has three daughters, and they like you too. But not as much as me.”

Harry listens to her story, but he also glances up to meet Zayn’s eyes over her head. He shrugs. “She made some friends on the plane,” he mouths, shaking his head incredulously. Harry just grins back. He gets Laela.

“And look!” Laela goes on, tugging on Harry’s shirt until he’s paying full attention to her again. “I drew a picture!” she hands Harry the slightly crumpled paper. “That’s me,” she announces, pointing to the smaller person in the foreground, with two black lines that are clearly her hair, and a blue dress that’s the same color as her most recent favorite. “And that’s baba,” she goes on, pointing to a figure with a black line for hair and some scribbles on his chin for stubble, along with some colors on his arms that are probably tattoos. “And that’s you!” Harry’s got brown spirals for curls, and there are music notes around him.

Harry can feel himself glowing, looking at the little family portrait. To think he’d thought he’d ever not want this. “It’s beautiful,” he tells her. “I’m bringing it on TV next time. Show it off to everyone.”

“Good!” She nods, like it’s her due.

If Harry doesn’t say something soon, he’s going to blurt something out that this isn’t the time for, something about the ring he has in a drawer in the L.A. house, that he’s been talking romantic plans with Niall about. “And who’s that?” he asks instead, pointing to some brown circles at their feet, because it isn’t the time for that. Not yet. Not like this.

“That’s our puppy.”

“We have a puppy?” Harry raises his eyebrows in a question at Zayn.

Zayn sighs, like this is something he’s heard a lot about. “In Laela’s perfect world, we do. I wanted to talk to you first.”

He needs to talk to Harry before making big decisions. It still makes Harry happy to know. “Do you want a puppy?”

Zayn bites his lip, glancing at Laela then up at Harry with a meaningful look, which means he does but he doesn’t want to say it. Harry nods. “Well, we can discuss that later,” he hurries on, to distract Laela. “You ready to go? Time for you to get to bed properly,” he tells Laela, who nods as both adults stand up.

Laela yawns, and Zayn reaches down to pick her up, but she shakes her head and bats his arms away. “Want Harry to carry me,” she orders.

Zayn backs off, raising his hands. “Am I not your favorite anymore?”

“Want Harry,” she insists, and Harry doesn’t bother hiding his glee as he scoops her up, settling her on his hip. She’s almost too big for this, even though she’s small for her age, but he can get her to the car.

“Nope, she loves me more,” he tells Zayn. But when he turns to him, Zayn’s just got that smile on, the one that takes Harry’s breath away, that’s like all the love he feels is written in it.

“Don’t blame her,” Zayn agrees softly. He steps closer, so he can press a kiss to Laela’s forehead, can run a hand over Harry’s shoulders. “You’re my favorite too.”

Harry beams, and tilts his head around Laela so he can kiss Zayn’s cheek. “Well, you’re mine, so it’s even. Ready to go?”

“If you are. Working the line?”

“With her? Nah, I’ll just wave some.”

Zayn nods, and his hand is on Harry’s back. It’s exactly where Harry wants to be, he thinks, with Zayn’s hand against him like a gentle reminder he’s here, he’s here for Harry, and Laela in his arms. “Okay then. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, letting Zayn usher him out the door. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Questions? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


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